


Someone To Belong To

by OliTheOlive



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Explicit Consent, First Time, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Master/Slave, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sensual Undressing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2018-07-18 08:49:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 50,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7308256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OliTheOlive/pseuds/OliTheOlive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erasmus tries to find his place in the world after everything was turned on its head, twice. Torveld finds a reason to doubt a tradition he had always accepted.</p><p>[fills in their perspectives during the books]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Challenge and Reward

They didn't explain to Erasmus why he was being brought to the ballroom; he wished they had, though he knew of course that a slave was owed no such thing. A slave was owed nothing at all. His purpose was to serve and not to question. He pushed down the uncertain fluttering in his stomach and cleared his mind of all but his desire to serve, just as he'd been trained. He would be brave and face whatever was coming because his masters asked it. And, after all, Prince Laurent had reassured him earlier that all would turn out well if he could be brave tonight. That meant, surely, that the Prince believed in him, was confident he could endure, and he did not wish to disappoint the kind Prince. Doubly resolute, he held his back straight and walked calmly behind the handler through the ornamented hallways. He would not let his masters down.

The handler paused in front of the towering double doors to the ballroom, nodding to the guards on each side. The closest guard turned and pushed one door open. Inside, bright and singular in the effuse candlelight from the sconces, there was fire. Two points of fire, crackling at each end of a long stick as it was twirled slowly by...by someone. He couldn't focus on the person's face long enough to recognize it, could barely focus on breathing. His eyes wouldn't move away from the fire. His thigh ached, suddenly, as it had not in days.

The handler moved forward, toward the fire, and Erasmus stumbled. His body was pulling back against the tension of the leash, his heart hammering so loudly in his ears that there seemed no other sound in the room, and he could feel his limbs quiver and start to shake. He was making a fool of himself, staggering after the handler like he'd forgotten how to walk, resisting the pull of the leash. His masters must surely be ashamed to see their slave behaving like he'd had no training at all. He willed his heart to calm, his legs to move, begged his body to obey, but he could do nothing to get it under control. The fire came closer with every step the handler dragged out of him, and he wanted only to run as far from it as he could.

He was on his knees now, legs trembling as if with a day's worth of heavy strain. Had he knelt here himself, like he was supposed to, or had the handler had to push him down? The heat of the fire was on his skin, its red-orange glow bright in his eyes, but he could not hear it crackle over the pounding of his heart. He still could hear nothing at all but that pounding; he only hoped he had not been given an order and ignored it. This display was shameful enough already. What a terrible slave he was, to forget all his training and behave so miserably when his masters needed him to be good! A painful lurch of his stomach threatened to empty his last meal onto the floor in front of him. He bit down on it, jaw tight with effort, and tried to focus. His eyes still would not leave the fire, but he did his best to clear his head. He had to be brave, he had to face this, for his masters, for Prince Laurent. His purpose was to serve, no matter what was asked of him. If the masters wished to burn him again, he would sit still and be quiet; it was not his place to question.

The fire went out. At first, Erasmus thought he had imagined it. But then the smell hit him, the burnt sting of the smoke that was curling around the stick, up and up toward the high ceiling. The stick was finally still, resting harmlessly extinguished next to the adorned feet of its wielder. The red-haired pet, Erasmus saw now, the one who had performed with his friend the other night. Why had the pet put out the fire? Voices drifted to him from the high table over the quieting beat of his heart. One voice in particular, deep and warm, something familiar in the shape of the words carried by its commanding tone. The handler was nudging him to his feet. Legs still shaking but feeling more stable than before, he rose and walked forward. He prostrated before the high table, movements clumsy and wooden, and sat up into a kneel, head up but eyes lowered respectfully. Prince Laurent was sitting at the table, and he seemed satisfied. Erasmus felt himself breathe out softly, stomach settling, head clearing. The man sitting next to Prince Laurent was the source of the voice; he was speaking again, asking a question in Patran. It took Erasmus a long moment to process the words, so he dipped his head in apology as he answered.

“This slave is called Erasmus,” he said, his own voice soft and thready to his ears.

“Where did you serve before you were sent to Vere, Erasmus?” the Patran asked, and his voice was rich and full, dripping down Erasmus' spine like a soothing caress.

“The Veretian masters are the first this slave has been honored to serve,” he answered and shifted to tilt his body toward the Patran, voice clearer now, “Since the training masters of the palace at Ios.”

He glanced up just long enough to see a hint of the Patran's expression. There was a frown, but it looked more like concern than anger. His eyes were a warm brown, set into a handsome face distinguished with age. His clothes were just as fine as Prince Laurent's, but distinctly Patran in style. His dark skin and the deep brown of his hair and beard reminded Erasmus of home.

“What do you think of your new home?”

“There has been much to learn of the Veretian masters' culture,” Erasmus answered and dipped smoothly into a brief bow of deference, “Each moment of instruction is an opportunity to improve.”

In truth, there had been more moments of confusion and distress than learning. Still, Erasmus had tried every time to use the experience in order to better serve his new masters. It was his purpose to serve, to please them, and though at times he had despaired and wondered if it were even possible to please the enigmatic Veretians, he tried to remain hopeful.

“I suppose there was no instruction on Veretian culture in the training house,” the Patran said.

“Your Highness is most correct,” Erasmus replied with a respectful nod and a faint smile.

He was rewarded with a brief smile in return, and his heart soared. This Patran was a prince, just as he'd thought, and more wonderful yet this prince was pleased with him. A desire sparked in him to continue pleasing the Patran prince, to earn more and more smiles. It was stronger than his desire to please the Veretian masters, as strong perhaps as his former desire to appeal to Prince Damianos. His chest felt warmer.

“But you have been instructed in Patran culture, it seems. Your command of the language is impressive,” the Patran prince said.

His hand came forward to rest on Erasmus' head, and Erasmus had to fight not to reach up and cling to it. Heavy, strong, and reassuring, it chased away the last of his worries.

“This slave is honored by Your Highness' appreciation,” he whispered, and it felt like a prayer.

“Come and sit beside me, Erasmus.”

The prince withdrew his hand, but when Erasmus glanced up he was smiling. Erasmus moved forward with all the elegance he had been taught in the training house and bent to kiss the prince's foot, ankle, calf. His heart fluttered with a moment of worry that such boldness would not be well-received, but the prince's hand came to rest on his head again, warm and encouraging. He dared even higher and pressed a soft kiss to the inside of the prince's knee. Then he settled into a comfortable kneel beside the prince's legs, allowing himself the indulgence of leaning his shoulder into the prince's thigh. It felt sturdy under his weight, grounding and solid. The prince's hand remained on his head, fingers brushing idly through his hair, even as he began to speak in Veretian, his attention evidently returned to whatever important business this interlude had interrupted.


	2. Desire and Diplomacy

Torveld had hardly registered the slave – Erasmus - as anything beyond a soft warmth at his side during the negotiations. As they walked through the corridors to his chambers, he felt awakened by the brisk night air, but still Erasmus was barely a whisper of a presence. His guards, so well-used to being inconspicuous, felt almost overbearing in comparison. He dismissed them after entering his chambers and took off his coat. By the time he looked up, Erasmus had slipped silently across the room, poured him a glass of water, and returned to offer it up to him in an impeccable posture of supplication. The training of Akielon palace slaves was not falsely praised. Such a beautiful gift the Veretians had squandered. He recalled watching his younger nephews take their expertly forged new swords and bang them against every hard surface in sight.

Torveld accepted the water and drank half, then handed it back. Erasmus bowed deeper into his supplication, then turned to move away and replace the goblet. Torveld reached out and touched his arm, and he went still.

“Drink the rest,” Torveld said into the stillness between them, “You surely need it after the night you've had.”

Erasmus flushed a delicate rose that was barely visible in the low light of the candles scattered through the room. Warmth stirred in Torveld's chest, and he smiled. His hand traveled down Erasmus' arm and came to rest just above his wrist, fingertips brushing the edge of one gold cuff. Erasmus dipped his head, and Torveld watched the way his honeyed curls brushed against his face as he tilted the goblet up and drank what was left of the water. It felt like watching a tapestry come to life. When he'd finished, Erasmus glanced up shyly through his eyelashes, a smile pulling at his lips.

“Your Highness is so kind to think of this slave's comfort. It will be an even greater pleasure to serve after such refreshment.”

His words were barely above a whisper, but they sounded so sincerely grateful that Torveld felt a strange urge to sit with Erasmus as he drank whatever was left in the pitcher across the room. Perhaps order a second pitcher. He resolved to shower Erasmus in sweets the next day instead. He stepped closer, and Erasmus tilted up toward him, eyelids lowering and lips parting in silent invitation. He tasted of sugar and cinnamon when Torveld kissed him; at least the Veretians were feeding him properly. But judgments faded from his mind as the kiss stretched on, giving way instead to a deepening warmth in his belly and an awestruck admiration for Akielon training. Erasmus kissed as if Torveld's mouth was the only source of air in the room. Yet somehow, for all the worshipful need in the kiss, the boy was still gentle, soft and yielding to Torveld's rhythm.

A stillness settled in the room as Torveld languished in the warmth of Erasmus' body against his, sweet lips moving together with his own. His hands moved slowly over the boy's soft skin, brushing up from wrist to elbow to shoulder, then down toward his waist. Erasmus breathed out a small sound that sent a shiver up Torveld's spine. The boy curved his body, offering more of his mouth and every part of him, and for a moment Torveld wanted to accept the offer. It would be so exquisite to see Erasmus perform, surrender to him and to their mutual pleasure. His hands gripped tighter at Erasmus' slender waist, and he kissed deeper, startling a moan out of cinnamon-scented lips. And then he drew in a breath and stopped.

He could almost feel Erasmus' confusion, palpable in the sliver of air between them, as he pulled their lips apart. Part of his mind urged him again to take and enjoy all that Erasmus had willingly offered. But years of diplomacy had taught him how to step softly into a delicate situation, how to wait until the right moment to move toward a goal. This was not the right moment; however willing, Erasmus had been hurt here, and Torveld did not know how badly. A delicate situation, if there was ever any. He shifted backward to put another precious inch between them. Erasmus' hand, which had found its way to his chest, twitched; his body was tight with uncertainty. Torveld pressed a kiss to his forehead. The tension eased. He brought one hand up to brush Erasmus' cheek, letting it rest there to support the boy's head as it tilted into the contact.

“You are beautiful,” he whispered, “Even among the famed palace slaves of Ios, a gem.”

Erasmus hummed grateful appreciation and moved shyly to offer another kiss. Torveld pressed his lips to the boy's temple instead. Erasmus paused in confusion, then started to sink into a kneel, but Torveld stopped him with a soft tug at the small of his back. If he let the night progress that way, he was certain to regret it.

“And you are brave. Resourceful, to persevere in such conditions,” he continued, and at this he heard a soft catch in Erasmus' breath, “I have heard the palace slaves are fragile. Yet I have seen soldiers fail where you have not.”

“Your Highness is....this slave does not deserve such great praise,” Erasmus whispered, voice trembling, “It is only the duty of a slave to continue for the sake of the master.”

“It is the duty of the master to set boundaries for the slave's well-being,” Torveld insisted in a gentle voice, “You certainly deserve praise for withstanding mistreatment. But you deserve even more a master who will appreciate you and treat you well.”

He felt warm breath wisp across his collarbone, uneven and wavering. The hand resting on his chest had curled into a loose fist. When Erasmus did not speak, Torveld sighed softly into his hair, pressed a second kiss to his temple, and carried on.

“I would like to be that master. The consignment from Ios is being indefinitely loaned to Patras, and I would like to have you as my personal slave.”

Erasmus was entirely still, not even his breath stirring against Torveld's skin. Torveld waited. The candles flickered and cast dancing shadows across Erasmus' honey brown curls and pale olive skin. Finally, Erasmus took a breath.

“Your Highness honors this slave beyond measure with your consideration,” he whispered, “This slave will work hard to prove himself worthy of such an honor.”

It was a rote phrase, that much Torveld knew without having met any Akielon palace slave before. Distantly, the diplomat in him noted how diligent the training masters had been to teach such phrases in Patran as well. The man in him felt a well of disappointment. He could only hope the hint of happiness wrapped around the words wasn't also a product of memorization. He wanted Erasmus to be happy for this news; he wanted Erasmus to be happy.

“In your country, there is the tradition of the First Night, isn't there?” he asked instead of asking 'how do you really feel?'.

Erasmus nodded, his eyes flashing up for just an instant to Torveld's face. It was hard to tell from such a short glimpse, but Torveld thought he saw a sparkle there that he hadn't seen before.

“I would like to give you one, properly, after we arrive in Patras. In my own bed, in our new home.”

The warm skin under Torveld's hand grew warmer, and he tilted Erasmus' face up enough to see a soft smile forming under his flushed cheeks. He smiled warmly in return and allowed himself to lean in and kiss Erasmus's lips again, slow this time, comfort more than craving. When he pulled away, he felt almost breathless. Really, he was getting too old for this sort of thing. But perhaps a man was allowed to relive his youth just once as he got on in years. He laughed and pressed Erasmus close against him, wrapping him tightly in a hug. Tentatively, Erasmus' arms circled around Torveld's rib cage, not quite meeting over his spine. Two delicate hands pressed their twin, gentle weights over Torveld's shoulder blades. For a heady moment, he was reminded of an embrace shared years ago with his first love, in secret under a plum tree after dark.

“Let us sleep,” he eventually whispered, and reluctantly stepped back.

Erasmus only nodded, and offered no resistance as Torveld led him by the hand into the ample bed adorned with rich blankets. He directed Erasmus to lay in the center, then arranged himself closer to the edge, with one arm outstretched toward Erasmus. Hesitantly, the boy shifted toward him, and Torveld smiled and nodded. He watched with a warm heart as Erasmus snuggled close and tucked his head into the crook of Torveld's arm. The weight of his head was pleasing, the pillow of his curled hair a beautiful sight in the low light. He ran his knuckles idly over Erasmus' back, eliciting a soft noise that sounded, to him, thoroughly contented.

“My beautiful Erasmus...how fortunate I am today,” he murmured.

“This slave is overjoyed to serve Your Highness,” came the quiet reply, and Erasmus' voice was so endearingly sleepy that Torveld had to pause to compose his thoughts.

“My name is Torveld, dear one.”

“This slave is overjoyed to serve you, Master Torveld,” Erasmus murmured, his voice careful and reverent as he tested out the name.

“I am overjoyed to receive your service,” Torveld whispered, and took the smile he felt against his chest as a sign he had chosen the right response.

They did not speak the rest of the night, but neither did Torveld sleep very much. He watched light and shadow flicker over Erasmus' hair and skin as the boy's chest moved with the rhythmic breathing of rest. The Prince's pet was to be interviewed in the morning about the protocol for the slaves that were now in Torveld's custody. He resolved to speak with the pet personally, as well. Without knowing the extent of Erasmus' mistreatment here, he couldn't hope to help the boy heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now that we have each of their first impressions, the story will move a little faster (next chapter will hopefully be the start of the journey to Patras!) stay tuned :)


	3. Gifts and Gratitude

Erasmus woke slowly the next morning. First, to the soft pillow under his face and the gentle weight of the blanket laying across his body like an embrace. Next, to the sunlight soaking into his skin. Then, to his limbs like warm clay, loose in a way he hadn't felt in months. Finally, to distant voices speaking Patran. He blinked his eyes open and listened, caught the words kyroi and Laurent but did not see why they should be matched in one conversation. He stretched with a quiet groan, reluctant to move. By the time he pushed himself up to sit, legs tangled in the luxurious sheets and hair in curled disarray, the voices had died down and his master was walking back toward the bed.

From the corner of his eye, careful not to stare with disrespectful openness, he watched his master's approach. His face was softer in the morning light, worry lines that had stood out in the glow of candles smoothed away. The trim edges of his beard and the thoughtful slant of his eyebrows framed bright eyes and and lips curved slightly up in the beginnings of a smile. His legs carried him steadily forward, confidence in the line of his body as he walked with shoulders back and head high. The long robe he wore hung open around his bare chest, defined muscles easy to see under the dusting of hair that covered his brown skin. Erasmus found him truly the most handsome man.

He knew it was not his place to judge his master's appearance, that he must love his master for everything he was no matter what he was. Almost, he could hear the training master's voice echoing years of lessons into his mind. But he couldn't help being glad to now belong to such a handsome master. And, above that, kind and generous – Master Torveld had thought of his thirst and weariness last night, even promised to allow Erasmus a real proper First Night. He was, in every way, the master Erasmus had dreamed of serving; he'd made himself give up on that dream here and still could hardly believe it had come to be after all.

Master Torveld reached the bed, sat down at the edge of it, and Erasmus tore himself out of his thoughts. He dipped into a shallow prostration, too late by far; he should not have been so distracted. The bed shifted, and he felt his master move closer. A firm hand caught his elbow and tilted him upward again. It traveled slowly across his arm up to his shoulder, then came to rest on the side of his neck. The pad of his master's thumb traced absently over his jaw. When he glanced up, cautious, through his lashes, he found his master watching him with eyes full of wonder. He could feel his cheeks darkening with a flush.

“I cannot decide if you're more beautiful in sunlight or candlelight,” Master Torveld whispered. This did nothing to slow the rush of heat into his face.

“Today I will accompany the Prince on a hunting trip. I believe his pet will be there. If you would like to make your farewells.” 

Erasmus nodded and allowed himself a smile. His master was so kind to worry over the parting words between two slaves. He waited for a moment to hear what his master would say next, finally daring a curious glance upward. Master Torveld was still watching him, expression thoughtful. 

“We are nearing the end of my visit to Vere. Soon you can leave this place behind.” 

“This slave wants only to serve in whatever way best pleases you, Master Torveld.” 

The reply left his mouth before he'd really thought about his master's words. It was what he was meant to say, what he'd been trained to say. And it was, without doubt, easier than considering the memories that made Vere a place he was happy to leave. His master frowned, and unease trickled down his spine. But his master only brushed a stray curl back from his face. His hand came to rest warm and heavy on Erasmus' cheek, fingertips tickling at the edge of his hair. 

“I do not wish to be the only one pleased in this,” Master Torveld whispered, his eyes tracing each detail of Erasmus' face, “You are not a doll for my amusement, Erasmus. I want you to tell me what you feel and desire.” 

Erasmus smiled, slow and sensual, as he had practiced so many times in the training halls. He arced his back and brought his lips up to brush against his master's, suggestive but not demanding. One strong arm slid around his waist to pull him closer, and the one on his cheek brought him the last of the way into this kiss. He let his mouth fall open, but his master broke the kiss instead of deepening it, though he could feel the man's quickened heartbeat and breath. 

“Erasmus,” he whispered, insistent. 

“...This slave desires only his master,” Erasmus whispered in return, “Master Torveld's pleasure is the greatest joy. Nothing else is needed.” 

He expected the kiss to resume, perhaps even lead to heightened passion and an interlude of fevered caresses. His master would not press further than that, he was almost certain, after having decided to wait for their First Night, but still Erasmus was ready in case a moment of passion overtook Master Torveld. He did not expect, had not prepared, for his master to pull away from him with a weary sigh and stand up out of the bed. It left him frozen, bewildered, eyes drifting from the empty space still lingering with Master Torveld's warmth up to the man standing in front of him, body held tight and eyes clouded. 

“Master Torveld?” he whispered, keeping a hesitant smile on though he couldn't stop his voice from pinching with worry. 

“Oh,” his master said, expression shifting to surprise and then what almost looked like guilt, “No, Erasmus, no...I'm not angry with you. It's all right.” He leaned down and gently pulled Erasmus to the edge of the bed, pressing a kiss to his forehead that sent soothing warmth through Erasmus' body. It was enough to calm the worst of the fear that had threatened to come pouring forth. But he still did not know what he had done wrong, to make his master's passion cool so abruptly. Should he ask, or would his master simply tell him? 

“I want...” Master Torveld murmured, “It would please me greatly to see you happy.” 

“This slave is more happy than should be possible, Master Torveld,” Erasmus said quickly, because he could not let his master think otherwise, especially not when it was so far from the truth. 

“Even so,” Master Torveld sighed, standing upright again but looking at Erasmus with much softer eyes, “You should look to your own pleasure as well as mine. If there is something I do that you like, or something you want that I am not giving, tell me.” 

Erasmus nodded slowly, not sure he quite understood. But, as his master watched him expectantly, he resolved to try to follow this order. He would do his best for Master Torveld, who was so gentle and so kind. 

_____________________ 

Erasmus' first full day of service passed in a flurry of activity. After the quiet moment with Master Torveld, the morning turned to preparations for the hunt. He helped his master into the tunic and robes he would wear for lunch, then was led out of the way by an old servant with limp gray hair. The servant gave him a plain tunic, cut in the Patran style, that fell halfway to his knees when he slipped it on. Together, they accented his eyes and lips with light-colored paints and fixed his hair in place with a brush and a few well-placed pins. He heard, distantly, the servant deem him “lovely” before leading him away to the litter he would ride on during the journey to the hunting ground. Erasmus thanked him with a smile and a quick bow.

It was difficult not to steal glances at his master as they rode through the woods, but he did his best to sit obediently still with his eyes on his lap. When they arrived, he allowed himself to admire the strength of Master Torveld's legs as as he dropped down off of his horse. At lunch, he served his master carefully chosen bits of the feast and made sure his goblet was never empty. Master Torveld spoke amiably with Prince Laurent and the other important men and women gathered inside the tent; yet he was kind enough to gift Erasmus with a smile or a gentle squeeze of his knee now and then. Erasmus allowed himself the selfishness of shifting a little closer, to feel the warmth of his master's body. After the meal, he again helped his master dress, this time in riding clothes for the hunt. Master Torveld thanked him with a smile that made his heart light, kissed his forehead, and left to mount. 

Erasmus waited until his friend, the Akielon soldier turned slave, came back inside from attending his own master. He failed to hide his embarrassment at his friend's appreciative gaze; how odd to feel under the eyes of another slave an echo of how he felt under his master's eyes. He decided not to dwell on it, since after all there were more important things to think of. Before even thinking to return his friend's greeting, he launched into words of gratitude. 

His friend, apparently, hadn't known of Prince Laurent's visit to Erasmus. Perhaps the Prince didn't like to share his plans with his slave. Erasmus continued undeterred in vowing to repay his friend for the great kindness of securing Prince Laurent's help. After all, such an important man would never have known of him if not for his friend. 

“Your happiness is repayment enough,” was his friend's answer. But he knew it wasn't. He tried to make his friend understand all that he had given Erasmus. Since the night he lost Prince Damianos' pin, he had been lost and teetering. What he'd known all his life had become suddenly, painfully, untrue. He had tried to adjust to this new life, to become nothing, to submit so completely that he faded away, forgetful and forgotten. Each day, a new test degraded him, and each night, he dreamed of the lost friend who had sent him here. The conversation in the gardens with his new friend only confirmed the fears that had twisted quietly in the back of his mind. That night, pressed against a tree trunk and split open by the ruthless bulk of the man yanking his hair like a handle, he had held in his tears and hoped to disappear. The days after had been foggy, a muffled dream; he wandered through them as if empty, until Prince Laurent's visit brought him back awake. 

“I need someone – to belong to,” he finished, weakly, praying his insufficient words would somehow show his friend what he felt. 

“You have someone.” 

Erasmus smiled. His friend understood; his words had been enough. On the verge of destruction, this man had given him a second chance. A new master that valued his submission and treated him so well. A path forward out of the fog. He didn't know if he would ever find a way to thank his friend that truly matched the enormous gratitude he felt, but he was determined to keep searching. 

Their conversation turned to his master. Erasmus admitted, shyly, his selfish thoughts on Master Torveld's looks. Between slaves, perhaps it was fine to say such things. His friend didn't admonish him, but instead also spoke of Master Torveld with high praise, called him a 'great man.' They talked of the journey and all the changes in starting this new life. Erasmus soothed his nerves by thinking of his master's smile when he performed well; he hoped the others would find masters equally as kind. For the rest of the afternoon, he and his friend spoke of meaningless things – a favorite Akielon dish, the strangeness of the Veretian accent – until their masters returned. It reminded him, almost, of conversations from long ago in the gardens of the training house. 

During the return from the hunt and the evening that followed, Erasmus occupied his body and thoughts with serving Master Torveld. He pushed aside memories and worries and the guilt of leaving his friend behind in Vere. All that mattered was his master and the soft smile that lit up his master's eyes as they settled into bed that night to sleep. 

_____________________ 

The day of their departure, he woke before the sun, but his master had already gone long before. An hour after he woke up in a cold bed and an empty room, two Patran servants came with a simple breakfast of fruit and milk. One of them was familiar, the old servant who had helped him dress the day before. The other, who seemed barely older than Erasmus, carried a brown package under his arm. Erasmus bowed to them, not a full prostration but enough to show his respect to their higher rank as free men. They dipped their heads politely and, with bright smiles, wished him a good morning in their language. It did not sound as sweet in their voices as in his master's, but still his heart lightened and he smiled. 

“Prince Torveld asked us to tell you he is coordinating the preparations for the travelling party this morning,” the younger servant said, “And to apologize on his behalf. He wished he could have waited until you woke up, to tell you himself.” 

“I'm glad to hear all is well. I was a bit worried to find him gone,” Erasmus admitted, looking down shyly, “My master is so kind to think of me when he is already busy with more important things.” 

The old servant chuckled, eyes bright under his thick and graying eyebrows. He held out the tray of breakfast, and Erasmus accepted it with another swift bow. 

“Our Prince is quite taken with you. He called me aside personally to bring Korin and check on his lovely slave. Other than worry, are you well?” 

Erasmus felt his cheeks heat, his smile growing wider until it almost hurt. The old servant chuckled again, and Korin shook his head with warm amusement. 

“I am most well, yes. Please thank my master for me. I am...touched.” 

“You are as lovesick as it gets,” Korin teased, and his voice was light and friendly, so Erasmus kept smiling. 

“With a master as wonderful as mine, I cannot help myself,” he replied with a small shrug. 

“Well, you have a point there,” Korin said, “Doesn't he, Dagil? Prince Torveld is real handsome. If I liked men, I bet I'd fall for him, too.” 

Dagil rolled his eyes at his young companion, though his warm and affectionate smile stayed in place. He took the small package from under Korin's arm and whapped him lightly on the head with it. Korin gave a quite theatrical yelp and snatched it back. Erasmus bit the inside of his cheek to hold in a laugh. 

“Prince Torveld is a good and noble man, and that is far more important than looks,” Dagil lectured, sounding for all the world like one of the training masters until his voice lowered into the tone of a trickster sharing an aside with the audience, “And he would certainly never lower himself to bedding a snarky servant boy who is allergic to baths.” 

This time Erasmus could not stop his laughter, and it echoed off the walls into his ears like a song almost forgotten and heard again on the summer breeze. Abruptly, he stopped laughing. Korin paused halfway into a playful glare, and raised his eyebrows. Dagil's smile faded into the slight frown of contemplation. He set the package down on a nearby setee. Erasmus let his gaze drop to the tray of fruit and milk in his hands. 

“These are clothes for the journey,” Dagil said, “Prince Torveld was concerned the tunic would not protect your fair skin from the sun, sitting in the saddle, and the Veretian prince was kind enough to give up some old things he doesn't use anymore, since you're of a size and there wasn't time to make a new outfit.” 

Erasmus' gaze lifted to the unassuming package resting not far away. Prince Laurent's clothing? He flushed deeper, honored and ashamed at once. A slave dressed as a prince... 

“Take your time in getting ready. Prince Torveld's baggage has already been cleared out, so you'll have the rooms to yourself. He asks that you be down in the main courtyard before the sun is halfway to its crest.” 

Dagil and Korin nodded their heads again respectfully, and Erasmus bowed. He watched them go, Korin leaning in to whisper something that made Dagil elbow him softly in the ribs. Korin glanced back at Erasmus as the two men exited, and then with the soft scrape of stone against stone the doors closed and he was alone. 

Erasmus sat down on the setee, as far from the little package of clothing as he could, the tray of breakfast resting in his lap. He was no longer hungry. Today he would leave Vere, this country where he had known much pain and little kindness. He would travel with a master, prized and cared for, not locked in a tiny cage like an animal. He would leave what he knew and go to a place he had never seen, but this time he would speak the language and he would have his master to explain what he did not understand. The happiness in his heart, he understood, the fear low in his stomach even made sense. He couldn't account for the well of loneliness that ached inside his throat. Perhaps it would just go away. 

He picked at his fruit, taking small bites; if he didn't eat something, at least, his master would worry. As he contemplated whether he would ride in the same wagon as the other slaves or be placed in a different wagon, perhaps with the baggage and servants of Master Torveld's household, a detail he hadn't noticed at first in Dagil's words abruptly crystallized. His master didn't think his silks would hold up to riding horseback. How was he going to explain to Master Torveld that he had not been taught how to ride? 

_____________ 

The courtyard was settling into the stillness of anticipation as Erasmus made his way into it, but he could yet see the remnants of a bustling and ordered chaos. A few servants hurried toward the supply wagons with their arms full of the last of the baggage. The Patran soldiers, their ceremonial uniforms traded for travel clothes in Master Torveld's colors, were standing at their posts next to each wagon and flanking the twin files of servants. Everyone was shuffling, heads or eyes turning toward the front of the caravan every few moments. They shifted to look as Erasmus walked unsteadily past them. Sweat prickled at the back of his neck, under the high and stifling collar of Prince Laurent's riding jacket. He walked faster. 

This was not right. A slave was not meant to cover so much skin, to move so conspicuously across an empty space unguarded and alone. The heavy fabric clung to his body and made it difficult to move his legs. He knew he ought to have come earlier so he could fade into the crowd, but he had been afraid to leave his master's rooms on his own. Let alone in this outfit. His master had sought to care for him, worried over his skin the sunlight, but he just felt exposed, targeted...with a deep breath, he reminded himself that it was his master's wishes that mattered. He should be grateful for his master's consideration. 

Erasmus passed the frontmost wagon and moved hesitantly past the handful of mounted soldiers and advisors and their fidgeting horses. As he moved closer to the front of the gathered horses, he searched for his master. The sun caught a burst of golden hair as it rose westward, and Erasmus' gaze followed the light of it. He wavered, his stomach and his head seemed to switch places. Master Torveld was standing at the very head of the line, hands wrapped loose around his horse's reins, talking amiably with none other than Prince Laurent. The Prince glanced over Master Torveld's shoulder and caught sight of Erasmus. Humiliation burned across Erasmus' face, to feel himself standing here in a prince's presence wearing that prince's clothes as if he had any right to them. He fell to his knees in a prostration just as the Prince said something, quietly, to his master. 

“Erasmus, stand up and come here,” Master Torveld ordered gently. 

Though reluctant, he could not hesitate. He stood and walked to his master's side, eyes fixed on the ground. Master Torveld rested a hand on his upper back, a soothing weight that still did not chase away all of Erasmus' distress. 

“I would say the clothes suit him, don't you think, Prince Torveld?” 

His master laughed, soft and warm, and Erasmus wanted to wither into nothing. He glanced up at the Veretian prince; his face looked as kind as ever, the tiniest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, but there was something different in his eyes that Erasmus couldn't place. At least he didn't seem disgusted. 

“They certainly highlight his face to good advantage,” Master Torveld mused, and Erasmus felt the low burning heat of his master's gaze without looking. 

“Indeed. He looks almost like a charming young courtier,” Prince Laurent said slowly, as if contemplating, “When you cannot see the collar and cuffs.” 

A moment stretched between them. Erasmus wondered at the comparison. His collar was a symbol of his submission, but it was hardly all that separated him from a free man. To insinuate otherwise...did Prince Laurent mean that he was, somehow, insufficient in his service? Did he act out of turn, spoiled, as if he thought himself free and noble? He glanced at his master, worry crushing into his ribcage. The man's face was thoughtful, his eyes distant; he did not seem either offended or suspicious. 

“I suppose he does,” Master Torveld replied at length. 

The hand resting on his back moved in a small comforting circle. Prince Laurent shifted his stance; not, as Erasmus expected, to close himself off defensively, but to move ever so slightly closer. 

“But my Erasmus doesn't look quite himself in the costume of a courtier,” Master Torveld continued, “I look forward to our arrival in Patras, when he can return to wearing clothing which suits his comfort.” 

Erasmus smiled, shoulders relaxing. His master was so kind. He vowed to do better at hiding his discomfort in these clothes, so as not to worry his master any further. Prince Laurent, when he glanced up, was watching Master Torveld with an unreadable look. 

“I am glad he and the others will be in good hands,” he finally said. 

“I always take great care with those entrusted to me,” Master Torveld responded with a matching smile. 

It felt, somehow, that they were saying more than their words. Erasmus pushed down his curiosity, though. It was not his place to wonder about matters that did not pertain to his service for his master. The two princes exchanged a few pleasantries, promises of future friendship, the usual parting words of important men such as they were. Erasmus stood unobtrusively at his master's side until the Veretian prince departed with a shallow bow. Master Torveld reciprocated the gesture, then turned to Erasmus. 

“It is time to depart, dear one,” he said, smiling fondly, and Erasmus' blood froze. 

“Ah....” he stammered, flushed with shame, “The training masters of Ios, though most wise and thorough, did not include any instruction in the techniques of horseback riding. This slave begs forgiveness for any disappointment...” 

He made to prostrate, but his master's hand squeezed at his shoulder to stop him. Confused, he looked up through his lashes. Master Torveld's eyes were sparkling with amusement, jaw held stiff as if he was holding back the edges of laughter. Erasmus wondered if he had been mistaken; was his master amused at his foolish slave for assuming he'd be riding? 

“You needn't worry, Erasmus. As long as you are able to sit still, you will do just fine.” 

Before Erasmus could put together enough words to properly ask, his master had pulled him over to the side of the tall brown horse whose reins he still held. He took his hand off Erasmus's back to lay it flat and soothing on the horse's neck. 

“Grip his mane there at the base, a big clump or it'll hurt. Get your foot in the stirrup and pull yourself up. One leg up and over his back, and settle in.” 

Erasmus must have shown too much of his bewilderment on his face, because his master leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Then another, and his hand came to rest in the curls of hair above Erasmus' ear. His lips moved down to kiss Erasmus' mouth, soft and chaste, but enough to bring heat to his cheeks. The soldiers and servants could see them, he knew; did his master enjoy such public displays? He tried to get his embarrassment in check, because he couldn't let it discourage Master Torveld if he wished to kiss more passionately. But instead of another kiss, his master gave him a murmured word of encouragement. 

“I will catch you if you fall. Go on, dear one.” 

His body warmed at the words, his nerves calming, and he nodded. Master Torveld stepped back to give him space. He stretched his arm up almost to the edge of its reach and gripped a fistful of the horse's mane. Maneuvering awkwardly, still unused to how constricting pants were, he managed to get his foot into the stirrup. He had to look down to make sure, unable to pick up the light pressure of the stirrup base through the thick soles of his Veretian boots. With a glance at his master's gentle, approving smile, he hoisted himself up. Though he felt horribly unbalanced, like he might launch right over the horse's back to the other side, he bore through it and steadied himself by leaning into the horse's side. A tap of his thigh reminded him of the next step. Though he was certain every moment of it that he was going to fall, he got his leg up and across the horse, then settled shakily onto the saddle. Gently, a calloused hand pulled his foot out of the stirrup and rested it against the horse's side. 

“Even better than my first try,” Master Torveld said warmly, and Erasmus looked down to see his handsome face split by a brilliant grin. For that smile, he knew, he would climb onto a thousand horses, no matter how frightening. 

“Hold on, now, this will jostle you a bit.” 

The saddle shifted with Master Torveld's weight as the man stepped into the stirrup and hauled himself up behind Erasmus. His body was solid and firm behind Erasmus, a steadying warmth. He slid one arm around Erasmus' chest, holding him safe and close, while his other hand kept hold of the horse's reins. Erasmus sank back into him, relished the feeling of his master's breath stirring his hair and his master's heartbeat pulsing between his shoulder and spine. Perhaps it was not so frightening on top of a horse, after all, if Master Torveld was here with him. 

“Move out!” Master Torveld called to the line of soldiers, wagons, and servants behind them. He squeezed his legs into the horse's side, his thighs brushing against Erasmus' own, and then they were moving. Out the courtyard gate to the main road. A sprawling Veretian city – the same one he had sometimes seen from the halls or gardens – laid ahead of them, and beyond that empty countryside. 

“A month or two, and we shall be home,” Master Torveld said, not the shout of a man ordering a procession to begin but the intimate murmur of a man speaking to a lover. 

Home. Images of the training house - hours spent practicing prostrations, nights spent awake dreaming of his life serving the Crown Prince, afternoon sunlight catching on Kallias' hair as they sat sharing secrets and dreams. His breath caught, unbidden longing burrowing sharp into his heart. He was not going to the home he knew. More images – nights spent awake wondering when he would see Kallias again, hours spent drowning himself in practices, watery moonlight catching on the smudged red of Kallias' painted lips as his beloved friend accused him of infidelity to his master. He swallowed down the ache that rose up into his throat. There was no going back to the home he knew. He closed his eyes and banished these memories with a long, careful breath. When he opened them again, he tried to picture their arrival in Bazal – hours at his master's side, nights in his master's bed, sunlight and moonlight and candlelight reflecting in his master's smiling eyes. 

“This slave is looking forward to a new life with Master Torveld.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much longer chapter this time - Erasmus has complicated feelings - hope you enjoy! Next chapter will have some rustic courtship and bonding~


	4. Expectation and Uncertainty

The procession carried on at exactly the pace Torveld had expected, and yet far slower than he would have liked. He found himself unusually impatient to arrive home. There was much to tell Torgeir, many preparations to be made for the moment, yet unknown, when Laurent would call on him for the aid he had promised. There would be apologies to make to his brother for getting involved in the fight for the Veretian throne after being warned quite explicitly not to do any such thing. There would, if he was lucky, be quiet moments he could use for showing Erasmus the gardens of Bazal and feeding him every Patran delicacy the royal palace was able to provide. There would be time to woo him, gently, as such a sweet slave deserved.

They rode together in peaceful silence on the first day, and the second, and the third. Erasmus served Torveld his meals with practiced inconspicuousness and undressed him in the evening with quick fingers and reverent kisses across his shoulders, up his calf to his knee. They lay together on Torveld's soft pallet in his spacious and sparsely decorated tent. Torveld watched his face slowly relax as he struggled, and failed, to fall asleep last. It was, Torveld thought, quite perfect. Except...

Except the 'peaceful' silence between them on his horse grew thick with the tension in Erasmus' back and arms as he sat perfectly still and perfectly straight. Except they also did not speak while Torveld ate or while Erasmus carefully rid him of his clothes; Erasmus had barely said ten words in three days. Except he tried, each night, to kiss higher than Torveld's knee, and his breath caught like a lost child when Torveld gently pushed him away. Except he struggled to undo the laces of his borrowed Veretian clothing, and he looked for all he tried to hide it as if he was about to cry when Torveld stepped forward to help him. Except he was awake, fully dressed, waiting with fresh breakfast and a hint of gray under his beautiful eyes and a faint twitch at the corner of his lovely smile, by the time Torveld woke at dawn.

Everything was perfect. Except, except...

The fourth day, after a silent breakfast, Torveld rose to dress. Erasmus was on his feet, hurrying subtly ahead, and he wavered and almost fell. Torveld caught him, one hand on Erasmus' waist, one hand wrapped around Erasmus' upper arm, stomach somewhere in the air on its way down from jumping to the roof. Both of Erasmus' eyes wide and horrified as he stammered out the longest sentence he'd said since leaving the castle at Arles.

“D-deepest apologies for this slave's unforgivable clumsiness, Master Torveld.”

“There is no cause for apology, Erasmus,” Torveld soothed.

He pulled Erasmus to him, resting one hand across the boy's shoulders and the other on the small of his back. Slowly, one breath at a time, the panic eased out of Erasmus' muscles, until he was sagging into Torveld's embrace, his head tucked onto Torveld's chest. Soft curls tickled at Torveld's bare collarbone. He trailed his hand down and up the boy's back, slow and careful.

“It is not clumsiness that troubles me, dear one. You are tired. Moreso each day. Have you slept a full night since leaving Arles?”

There was a long beat of nothing. Unusual, Torveld noted, for a slave so well-trained to delay the answer to a direct question. But he waited, because forcing a response too soon would only worsen the problem, whatever it was. He waited, silent, through several moments, empty but for the two of them breathing, until finally Erasmus' voice whispered out across his shoulder.

“There have been only two full nights of sleep since leaving Ios. Those were in Master Torveld's rooms...this slave did not expect the dreams to return after his master had quieted them....please forgive his ungracious weakness in continuing to dream of unhappy moments while resting in your arms.”

He waited again, though it pained him. His throat ached to spill reassurances and his own apologies; his arms, to carry Erasmus back into the bed to rest again, even if he would have to call off the day's travel for it. But he waited, because he must, until he was certain Erasmus had finished speaking. Then he turned his face and pressed his mouth to the crown of the boy's head, leaving a kiss to float among his curls. The body in his arms trembled, from relief or from holding in tears, he couldn't be sure.

“I cannot forgive what does not need forgiving,” Torveld spoke softly into Erasmus' hair, “There is no fault in you having such dreams. I wish only that I could take them from you and spare you that pain.”

“...this slave could never wish such dreams on Master Torveld.”

“Are they so terrible?”

The barest of nods, more a shift of the hairs laying across his collarbone than anything.

“Yet you suffer them alone, without comfort.”

"In,” Erasmus began, barely more than a catch of breath. Torveld soothed his palm down Erasmus' back, and the boy drew a breath to continue.

“In Arles, the Veretian masters allowed their slaves to sleep together in one room.”

It took Torveld a moment to find the thread of this comment and follow it to Erasmus' meaning. Of course, no slave could have said as much directly to his master. But Torveld understood; he obliged and repeated what Erasmus had hidden behind his words.

“So until now you have had the comfort of your fellows. But here you are alone with me, and you feared to wake your master only to bother him with your distress.”

He brought his hand up to rest on the back of Erasmus' head, heavy and gentle, and let out a slow sigh. In the Veretian palace, he had promised to help Erasmus heal, but had he truly given a thought to what that meant? For three days, he had allowed his sweet, fragile slave to suffer nightmares in silence. He could not fail so easily at this; he resolved to be more attentive.

“Erasmus,” he said, and let his voice be firm with all the command it knew how to hold, “Whenever you have another dream like that, I want you to wake me. No matter the time. Wake me and tell me what has distressed you. I will lay awake with you until you can sleep again.”

“If it will please Master Torveld, this slave is prepared to do anything.”

Torveld suppressed a groan that welled up from deep in his belly. It was not the answer he had hoped to hear, but he told himself to bear it. Perhaps, he reasoned, it was the only answer Erasmus could give at the moment; perhaps he could not yet be glad of Torveld's care past the fear of being a burden. There was still time, all the time in the world, for Erasmus to relearn the pleasure of being looked after.

“It will please me to see you sleep through the night unbothered.”

He kissed the top of Erasmus' head one more time and gently pushed the boy away to stand on his own, steadied with his own hands. When he didn't wobble, Torveld let his hands slide away, brushing along Erasmus' arms and over the cuffs at his wrists before falling in place at his sides. Their eyes met for barely a moment before Erasmus tucked his head down in respect. He looked, Torveld thought, a bit more at ease.

__________

The horses picked their way gingerly along the uneven path at a pace slow enough, by Torveld's estimation, to bore a snail. The wagons were likely moving at half that pace to keep from veering into a rut and toppling into the trees that closed in tight around and above the path. Though a comfortable distance from Torveld, on his horse with Erasmus in the center of the path, the treeline was hardly a handswidth away from each side of the wagons. A most disagreeable route, his advisers had warned. But it was the quickest, so he had insisted. Their party, Torveld at the head, had entered the woods just after midday with full stomachs and high hopes. It would be a stroke of luck if they reached the clearing where they planned to make camp by nightfall. The sun, in its relentless path toward the horizon, was already barely visible through the canopy of leaves. It was an afternoon rife with regret.

But the light that did make it past the canopy dappled over Erasmus' skin and left him glowing. He had, with mild insistence, been convinced to relax and lean his weight into Torveld's chest; the warmth of him soaked through the Veretian riding clothes and Torveld's own tunic straight to his heart. He could change nothing now about his choice of route, but there was nothing forcing him to wallow in his irritation. So he straightened his seat, held his arm a bit tighter around Erasmus' waist, and decided to do something about the silence that still clung between them.

“There is a grove outside the palace at Bazal, less than a half-day's ride, where my brother and I often took refuge in our youth.”

“Refuge?”

“Mm. From the dangers of boredom,” he chuckled, “We were both rather serious children, really. I enjoyed my studies for the most part, and Torgeir was born ready to sit solemnly on a throne. But when there were no lessons or important guests, the palace was a terribly dull place. So we would take a pair of horses and a satchel of fruit and bread from the kitchens and ride off to explore the woods.”

A beat of silence, an uncertain breath. The sound of returning to sword practice after a convalescence and hoping you wouldn't fumble.

“What sort of woods were they? Big, like these?”

Torveld looked to each side, smiling to himself, and shook his head. A guardsman walking nearby pushed a thick branch out of the way for the horses behind them.

“Not anything like these. Much smaller, but quite dense. And no proper path. We always had to leave the horses at the edge and go ahead on foot.”

“You and your brother the King never got lost?”

“Well, almost. Once or twice. But we'd learned to navigate by the sun, so we climbed up a tree and found our way easily enough. Even mapped the whole thing as we got older.”

“It must feel very safe, to explore with Master Torveld.”

“I fear you give me too much credit, dear one. I am simply a man who loves to be outdoors and to search for new places.”

“Do you still often wander in the grove?” This, with an almost-concealed hint of longing.

“I don't have as much free time now as in my childhood, but I try to go for a wander in any nearby wilderness when I can. Perhaps at Bazal, if there is time, I will bring you to the little grove and teach you to find your way out.”

“This slave would not wish to waste his master's time.”

“No time spent in your company is a waste, Erasmus,” Torveld murmured, and felt Erasmus' body stiffen and then melt, “Besides, with how much traveling I do, you may someday need such a skill.”

Erasmus hummed, soft and thoughtful, perhaps caught in a daydream of woodland adventure. Torveld reached up to brush a lock of hair behind Erasmus' ear, and he turned his head toward the touch, revealing a rosy cheek and the hint of a smile. Torveld felt his heart warm and full with promise.

“I fell in love for the first time at the top of a tree,” he whispered, and he had not expected to say anything at all.

Erasmus' cheek flushed darker, the jaw underneath it tightening as he swallowed. Part of Torveld wished to erase his words from the air. After all, it was poor form to talk of old loves during a new courtship. This was not exactly a courtship, he knew, and he was sure any slave trained in Ios would be happy to let their master reminisce. Yet that part of him insisted it was cruel, to flaunt this, to speak of past lovers when Erasmus was so unsure of his own worth. Another part of him – the part, perhaps, that had spoken – simply wanted his heart to be known to this young man. It was a yearning both familiar and foreign, the nostalgia of a bygone life.

“That is an unusual place to fall in love,” came, finally, the whisper in return.

Torveld hesitated. Erasmus had not gone stiff, was still leaning soft against his chest. He wished he could see the boy's eyes. Erasmus knew how to school his voice and face into complacent smiles, but his eyes were never quite so neutral.

“It was an unusual summer,” he admitted, “Or perhaps not, in truth. But everything feels strange the first time it happens.”

“Master Torveld is very wise,” Erasmus murmured, and Torveld could not pull apart the words and the feeling behind them.

Instead, he sighed and gathered himself back together. He kissed Erasmus' temple, exposed from underneath the hair Torveld had pulled back. One pulse of the young man's heartbeat rolled through his lips. Delicate fingers brushed over his arm and came to rest atop his own hand where it held Erasmus at the waist.

“I have not thought of that summer in years. It is the memory of a boy long ago grown into a man, one who thought himself past the passions of youth.”

Erasmus turned in his arms, head tilted up and to the side. A ray of sunlight caught on the burnished gold of his hair and spilled across the soft planes of his face. Their lips met, and Erasmus' small hand pressed harder onto his, and his body felt light, and the sun and the guards and the crunch of pebbles under the horse's hoof disappeared until there was nothing but Erasmus and the beat of his own heart.

He pulled back, lips parted to breathe, and Erasmus waited, cheeks flushed and eyes warm. It took all the hard-won patience of the years since that summer to make himself press the next kiss to Erasmus' forehead and gently turn the young man to face forward again.

“Not yet, dear one. Not here.”

He took a long breath, slow and careful. A glance around himself showed each and every guard carefully not looking in their direction. The procession had moved less than five yards.

“Let me tell you of my first attempt at navigating out of that grove. It started out rather disastrous...”

______________

It was well after nightfall when their party arrived at the clearing, and so Torveld skipped dinner to meet with his advisers. He began with many apologies for his hubris, which they graciously accepted, before delving into the plans for the next few days of their journey. Just over an hour later, he bid them farewell and walked through the small camp toward his tent. Dagil was lingering near the entrance.

“Ah, Your Highness,” he said, dipping into a bow, “I did try to look after him as you requested.”

“But?” Torveld prompted, raising one eyebrow.

“Well, he can't eat unless you've eaten, he said. It wouldn't be right, he said. There was no talking him out of it. But I did convince him to rest, under the guise of keeping your bed warm.”

Torveld didn't know whether his heart was swelling or breaking, but he smiled at Dagil all the same. The man bowed again, then straightened up with the same worry written in his face that was always there during Torveld's own youthful illnesses and injuries. It was a familiar expression; there had been many injuries, in the ring and the woods.

“He's oddly stubborn, it seems.”

“Yes, well, I doubt he would refuse it if you'd ordered him to eat. But he seems to be hung up on protocol. Something of the sort.”

“I'll speak with him about it. If nothing else, I will just have to stop skipping meals, to make sure he eats.”

He clasped Dagil's shoulder just tight enough to reassure, smiling again. The old servant returned his smile, then shook his head almost like an admonishing nursemaid.

“If this boy can get you to stop forgetting your meals, Your Highness, I will owe him a great deal of thanks.”

“Dagil,” Torveld said with a soft laugh, “Spare your worry for my Erasmus, please.”

“Respectfully, sir, I believe I have enough to spare for you both.”

Torveld laughed again and gave Dagil's shoulder one more squeeze before withdrawing his hand. Dagil bowed a third time before bidding goodnight and retreating through the dimness toward the servants' tent. Torveld ducked through the cloth hanging across the entrance to his tent. Only two candles were lit inside, one above each pillow of his bed.

Erasmus lay with his head on the far pillow, curls splayed over the rich green fabric. He had pulled the blanket up almost to his chin, one hand wrapped loosely around its edge to hold it in place. Beneath the blanket, Torveld could see his legs tucked up toward his belly and his back arched forward; an image of his young niece, sleeping curled around her pet kitten to protect it, came to Torveld's mind. He hadn't before noticed how childlike Erasmus looked when he slept, only that he was beautiful with his face at rest. A feeling he couldn't place settled into his stomach as he walked closer to the bed. It must, he decided, be an urge to protect.

He undressed quickly, not bothering to fold or put away his outerclothes. They rested in a pile on the floor as he blew out the candles, climbed into the bed and carefully laid himself beside Erasmus, close enough to feel the warmth of his body. He closed his eyes and, exhausted from an overlong day, fell swiftly asleep.

Whether it was minutes or hours later when he woke to his shoulder being hesitantly shaken, he had no idea. He grumbled and turned up on one elbow, groggy in the dark.

“P-please forgive the intrusion into your rest, M-Master Torveld.”

Clarity rushed into Torveld like a harsh wind. Erasmus was kneeling next to him, sobbing and gasping; even in the dark, Torveld could see streaks of tears on his cheeks. His hand, hovering just above Torveld's shoulder, was shaking, and his eyes were sharp with fear.

“Come. Come here. It is no intrusion,” he whispered.

He pulled Erasmus down to him, circling his arms around the young man's slight and trembling frame. A gasp, ragged and ashamed, spilled over his shoulder; the hands that curled on top of his chest were still shaking. He hugged Erasmus tighter to him and murmured terms of affection into his soft hair. A wave of sobs welled and crested, resonating in his dampened skin. He held vigil until they quieted into a bubbling seafoam, quiet sniffles against his collarbone. When the skin under his hand as he stroked it up and down Erasmus' back no longer trembled, he spoke.

“What was the nightmare?”

“.....gardens,” Erasmus answered, voice frail and cracked.

Torveld waited for more, the rest of what surely was a more detailed dream. But it did not come. Erratic breaths evened out to the lulled rhythm of sleep as his hand drifted over Erasmus' back. The trembling did not return, and the sobs were thoroughly quieted. But he did not loosen his embrace, could not bring himself to remove its comfort. Torveld did not sleep the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now it's Torveld's turn to have complicated feelings~
> 
> Sorry for the long wait! It's been a busy few weeks :) Hope you enjoy!


	5. Secrets and Restoration

_He is lying in the gardens of the training palace, thighs pressed to soft earth and head pillowed in someone else's lap. Who? He opens his eyes to check, and immediately a flood of sunlight rushes in to blur his vision into static. He squints, and the barest figure emerges through the deafening brightness. The rough outline of a face, a warm smile on full lips, a strand of red hair brushing across a high-boned cheek._

_“Erasmus, you'll blind yourself staring at the sun that way,” Kallias laughs._

_He closes his eyes tight, and the world is once again dark. Soothing shades of orange and red and black. His skin is warm, his body heavy; he does not want to move or speak. He wants this, just like this, forever. He smiles to show Kallias he has heard._

_The legs beneath him tense and shift with movement. A shadow blocks him from the sun. He breathes in slowly, and is not concerned. The shadow moves closer until the heat of Kallias' breath runs like mist over his nose and lips. He smiles. The lips that press against his are smiling, too. They are soft and perfect and buzzing with something unknown. He parts his own lips, to catch it, to breathe it in._

_The world shifts. The warmth of the sun is gone, and he shivers in an evening breeze that smells of the ocean. There is no lap beneath his head, only air brushing around his ears, his feet planted firmly on a stone path. He does not want to open his eyes. When he does, they are filled with tears._

_Kallias stands in front of him, the paint on his lips smeared, blended with the color from his cheeks. He watches Kallias wipe the back of his hand across those lips and spit at the ground in front of him. Golden eyes glare at him, hard and shining with disgust, and he does not understand._

_“Don't stare at me like that. You deserve this,” Kallias laughs._

_All around them are shouts, screams, the clang of swords. His arms are grabbed roughly and wrenched behind his back, and he is dragged into a cage. He does not understand. The shouts and screams grow louder, and he thinks he hears his own voice joining the cacophony. Kallias steps closer, leaning toward the bars of the cage as it is locked shut._

_“Disloyal, unworthy,” Kallias whispers, his voice warped and burning, “I know how you dream of our reunion, even more than you dream of your master. Selfish. Filthy, digusting. You don't deserve the Prince.”_

_He is crying, his sobs loud and piercing to his own ears. He begs Kallias to stop, to forgive him. Kallias spits in his face. The world shifts._

_There is a sconce near his face, so close his cheek feels numb and stretched and dry. The air is thick with the natural perfume from the bright Veretian flowers. His head is spinning. The guard is still holding the chain of his collar, using it like a handle to draw his head back and up. It is difficult to breathe. His silk tunic is bunched up around his chest; the bark of the tree he is slung across digs painfully into his skin. The guard is moving faster, tearing him open, and he wonders if this is what dying feels like. His first was meant for his master. Prince Damianos is dead, and he has not seen the Regent even once since the ceremony when they arrived. He tries so hard not to cry, but he can feel the wetness on his cheeks, drying quickly in the heat of the sconce. “Unworthy...you deserve this...disgusting...”_

_The world shifts._

Erasmus woke with a gasp that felt like drowning. He turned his face into the pillow and tried to restore his breathing to normal. When his chest no longer burned from sobbing, he rolled over and tentatively slid into Master Torveld's arms. The man had not awoken. He knew he was supposed to wake him and speak about the dream; but, and he promised himself it would be just once, he let his master go on sleeping. He never knew how to answer when Master Torveld asked what the nightmare was about. Not without losing him.

_____________________

Today, for the first time in two weeks of travel, they had arrived early at the place Master Torveld and his advisers chose for that night's rest. The servants and guards started unpacking the tents as usual. They seemed to move quicker, faces bright with the anticipation of an extra hour to relax. His master had hurried away to speak to an adviser, and so Erasmus waited by the horse, until a servant came and led it away, and he waited alone near the edge of a clearing being rapidly filled with tents.

Late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the grass, the shapes of men and tents and small trees. Erasmus began to wonder if he'd missed something. Had Master Torveld told him to go somewhere else? Perhaps to find Dagil or Korin and help prepare his meal. He couldn't remember any command as the man rushed off after helping Erasmus to the ground. But he also couldn't think of why his master would leave him here at the edge of camp. He was always at the man's side; if not there, left in Master Torveld's tent. So he must have missed something, but what?

Almost all the tents were up now. Servants milled about, some heading off to other tasks while others walked idly with friends. Their warm voices carried to Erasmus' ears; maybe they would know what he ought to do. He took a few hesitant steps toward a trio of servants standing, laughing, just to the side of the wide path that ran through the camp. A muted clang caught his attention, and he turned toward the sound. There was a guard laying stakes for one of the last tents. Clang, clang, clang...Erasmus stood several long paces from the guard, but the sound felt so close. Too close.

The guard stood up from hammering a stake into the ground, the bulk of him dwarfing the hammer held loosely in his hand, and looked toward where Erasmus stood. Erasmus shuddered and pulled one hand up across his chest, clutching at his upper arm. He curled his shoulders in and looked down, and tried not to feel the burning echoes of brutal hands on his skin. When he dared glance up again toward the guard, the man was gone. Erasmus breathed in slowly and willed his heart to calm. He longed for his master's presence as the shadows stretched further over the grass. The air smelled, impossibly, of decadent flowers.

“Erasmus.”

He flinched before he could catch himself, and his prostration was sloppy and rushed. Grass tickled his face; it smelled like itself again. Calm, he told himself, calm and quiet. Master Torveld wouldn't want a slave jumpy with imagined fear. Between this display and the nightmares, his master must find him a terrible burden, useless and weak. The soft crunch of weight settling on grass cut off his thoughts, and then warm hands were lifting him to kneel back on his heels.

“Erasmus.”

Softer this time, quiet and intimate. Master Torveld moved closer, his knees brushing Erasmus' own, and brought his hands up to cup Erasmus' face. His eyes were dark and soaked with worry, and it was Erasmus' fault. The pad of one thumb ran across the arch of his cheek and settled, damp, against the rest of Master Torveld's hand where it rested on the side of his face.

“What has happened? Did I frighten you?”

Erasmus shook his head, shutting his eyes hard and then blinking them open; his eyelashes were heavy with tears, but his cheeks stayed dry. He smiled and drew in a breath that he hoped sounded steadier than it felt.

“It was a mistake, nothing serious. Please do not trouble yourself.”

“I will not have you suffering this alone, Erasmus. What happened?”

“There was a guard,” he tried to explain, grasping at words as they fled.

“A guard? My guard? Did he hurt you?”

There was something horrified under the gruff confusion in Master Torveld's voice. He made to stand, but Erasmus reached up and clung to his wrists with a desperate whimper. Master Torveld settled, his body tense. Erasmus could feel him watching, knew he was expecting the rest of the words that were proving so hard to catch.

“He looked,” he managed, whimpered again in frustration at himself, and finished, “There was...no one was here that could stop him.”

A long moment passed in which Erasmus could hear clearly every breath they each took. Five, for him, quick and irregular. Two, for his master, slow and heavy like he had been running.

“Erasmus.”

This third repetition of his name sounded tired, almost overwhelmed. His fingers loosened at Master Torveld's wrists. He wondered, would this be the last time he heard his name in that deep and gentle voice?

“My guards will not hurt you,” Master Torveld whispered, “They will not even touch you, except to pull you out of harm's way.”

Erasmus did not know how to answer, and so he said nothing. Master Torveld moved closer, pressed his lips to Erasmus' forehead, then to his brow and each of his cheeks, finally to his lips, soft and tender. His hands stayed just where they were, cupping the sides of Erasmus' face. When Erasmus could not muster the will to kiss back, Master Torveld tipped his head down and rested their foreheads together. His breath was warm and smelled of spiced meats; his touch, light and demanding nothing. Erasmus watched the line of his lips as they tensed and untensed in thought. He wondered if this was another dream, and when the peace would splinter into torment.

“I give you my word, Erasmus, you will not be hurt. You are safe. You are mine, and I will protect you as my own life.”

“This...this slave is,” he breathed, his voice faltering as he forced out the memorized words, “He is beneath your attention.”

“No one is more worthy,” Master Torveld countered, and his voice was strong, and Erasmus yearned to be swallowed up in it.

“Master Torveld is too generous with this unworthy and pathetic slave.”

“Do not speak of yourself that way. I will not allow it.”

Erasmus opened his mouth to offer an apology, mortified at upsetting his master so much, but instead of words a thick sob dragged its way up from his belly. His throat and his heart felt raw in its wake, and his face was soaked with the wave of tears that chased along behind it.

“Erasmus,” came his master's voice, sharp with alarm, and he felt himself drawn into a tight embrace.

_I'm sorry. I'll be quiet. I'll be calm and sit still. I'm sorry. I can do better. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please. I can do better._

His body shook with the force of his need to speak these words, to beg for another chance. If he didn't get himself under control soon, his master would surely cast him aside. No one wants the bother of an oversensitive slave; a slave is meant to reduce the burden on his master, not to add to it. He had worked so hard to be worthy of a good master, to be good, to behave, to do everything with perfect form. And now he was failing at all of it. Falling apart and costing himself a second chance at serving happily for a good master, because he was too weak to bear the weight of his time in Vere. Master Torveld would give him away, and he would be right to do so.

“Shh, I'm here,” whispered his master's voice into his ear, “I'm here, dear one. You're safe.”

Slowly, guided by his master's words, Erasmus gathered himself back. The tears dried, the sobs faded, his breath came under his control again. He focused on the solid warmth of the arms around his body, matched the steady rhythm of the chest rising and falling against his own. He rested his face against Master Torveld's jaw and wondered at what impossible good fortune he had, to still be allowed this.

“Are you ready to stand?”

He nodded. Then he let himself be pulled up to his feet. He took the arm offered him to hold and balance by. He walked beside Master Torveld through the camp, eyes averted from the glances of servants and guards they passed. He stepped under the cloth hanging that Master Torveld held aside and into the tent where he had come to feel safe over the past two weeks. He let himself be steered to the bed. Sat down on it when gently pushed. Expected, for just a moment, to be pushed further back until he was laying down exposed for the taking. But instead a roll of bread was pressed into his hands. His hands were drawn up toward his mouth. A weight settled beside him and a hand brushed slowly from the top of his head to the nape of his neck. Once, and again. And again.

“Eat, Erasmus. One roll.”

He bit into the hard bread, dense and tasteless. His jaw felt heavy; moving it to grind the bread between his teeth was a gargantuan effort. He watched the candle on the table across from the bread as he chewed. Freshly lit when he first looked, it grew a sizable puddle of wax by the time he finished the roll. After he swallowed the last bite, the hand left his hair and the weight left his side. Both returned a moment later, and a clay cup pressed into his hands. He looked down at the clear wine swirling in it and drank without being told.

“Rest now. I will be here if you have another nightmare.”

Master Torveld helped him to undress, and did not look disgusted at having to do a servant's work for his useless slave. He pulled the blankets around Erasmus and stroked his hair, back and forth, as the candles flickered and melted. Erasmus studied the way his master's tunic draped, the shadows cast by his body. He felt warm and weighted down, except his head, which felt light and empty.

He did not realize he'd fallen asleep until he opened his eyes to crisp morning light, drifting in on a cool breeze from the uncovered doorway. Master Torveld sat at the table, eating cheese and dry fruit, his eyes fixed on Erasmus. He smiled when he saw Erasmus' eyes open, and for a moment their gazes met and held, and Erasmus smiled back without thinking. Then he remembered – who he was, who he was looking at – and cast his eyes quickly down. Then he realized he had slept straight through the night, and he thought of his master watching over him in the bed. His smile grew wider and his cheeks felt warm and he remembered snatches of words from the day before.

_You are safe. I'm here. I will be here._

________________

For three days, Erasmus rode with his master, listening to stories of Bazal and Vask and the worries of princehood. For three nights, Erasmus slept beside his master and did not wake in the night full of terror. They did not speak of the guard or Erasmus' fit. They did not speak of anything unhappy at all.

On the fourth day, they stopped next to a river for their midday meal. The servants began unpacking provisions. Erasmus saw Korin laying down a blanket to place the small feast on. Dagil walked with his slow, determined gait toward their horse. When Erasmus had moved to climb down from the saddle, Master Torveld's hand at his waist had stilled him.

“Thank you, Dagil,” Master Torveld said as soon as the old servant was close enough to hear.

Dagil smiled up at them and came to stand beside the horse, one hand extended to stroke its neck and the other clasped around the neck of a cloth sack that bulged with its load. The horse snuffled and turned its head to nudge Dagil's shoulder. Dagil lifted the sack, and Master Torveld bent forward to take it before Dagil's arm was even level with his own shoulders.

“There should be plenty for you both, Your Highness,” Dagil said, bowing his head and then sparing a glance at Erasmus, “I put in a bit extra of that honey you favor.”

Erasmus flushed and smiled, his heart warming at the old man's kindness. He dipped his head and murmured a few shy words of thanks. Dagil only laughed and waved him off gently. After another bow to Master Torveld, the servant urged them to depart.

“Don't cut your meal short on my account, sir. Go and enjoy your young man's company.”

Erasmus' flush deepened, and he turned away to fidget with the horse's mane. Master Torveld squeezed his legs and set the horse walking again. It carried them off ahead of the rest of the party, until Erasmus could no longer hear the hum of voices rising from a group happily enjoying a meal. The horse stopped next to a lone, but sturdy, plum tree growing at the river's edge. Master Torveld swung his leg over the horse's back and dropped down to the ground, then steadied Erasmus as he did the same.

“Go lay out our food, dear one,” Master Torveld murmured, handing Erasmus the satchel and kissing his forehead.

He took the horse's reins and walked it toward the river. Erasmus settled onto his knees under the tree to unpack the satchel. While he laid out the small cloth from inside, embroidered cotton in the deep green that Master Torveld enjoyed so much, Erasmus watched his master remove the horse's bridle and hang it on the saddle. The horse shook its head, mane fluttering loosely, and let Master Torveld scratch its ears. Erasmus pulled out the thin bread and hard cheese, wrapped in cloth, and set it artfully onto the green cloth. Next came the two small jars of Patran honey and the small knife he would use to cut and serve their meal. The horse dipped its head down to drink from the river, and Erasmus pulled out the flask of wine and two small cups left in the satchel, and Master Torveld turned and walked back toward him.

His master settled down beneath the tree with him, less than an arm's length away, and leaned back against the sturdy trunk. A breeze stirred the branches above them, knocking loose a brief shower of petals that landed in Erasmus' hair and all over their food, one soft pink petal caught in a curl of Master Torveld's beard. It was longer now than it had been in Vere. While traveling, he had learned, his master preferred not to fuss as carefully over trimming it.

Master Torveld laughed with a simple joy that rang fullness into Erasmus' chest. He smiled, ducking his head down to hide the flush he felt creeping onto his cheeks, and leaned forward to carefully pluck the flower petals off of their meal. While he worked, he could feel his master watching his movements. A glance up through his hair showed him that the man wore an easy smile, face softened in pleased appreciation. Erasmus flushed deeper. He pretended not to feel the nervous fluttering deep in his belly.

“There is a cloth merchant of some renown who trades in Bazal twice a year,” Master Torveld said, his tone contemplative and light, “I may request a few extra bolts of fabric in this shade of pink. Commission you a wardrobe full of it.”

He shifted forward and raised his hand to Erasmus' hair. His fingers carded through the fluff of curls, and Erasmus' flush grew even darker as he tilted his head toward his master's touch. The flower petals in his hair, stirred from their tenuous perch, drifted down through the air and gathered on his lap. He considered whether he could save any to construct some sort of jewelry. Perhaps weave them into his hair like the gems the cruel child pet in Vere had worn. Master Torveld's hand on his hip brought him back to the moment. He arched closer, tilted his face up, and parted his lips a hairsbreadth. Through his eyelashes, he watched Master Torveld's breath catch. And then the air between them was gone, and Master Torveld's lips were dry and warm as they gently guided his further open, and heat trickled from his mouth across his cheeks and down into his chest.

Master Torveld brought the kiss deeper, pulled Erasmus closer, the passion in his body palpable. Erasmus could hardly catch his breath. Just when he was sure his master would pull Erasmus into his lap, take advantage of the chance to touch all that was his, the pressure lessened. His master's lips rested chaste on his own, kissing with care. Erasmus covered his whimper of confusion with a quiet moan and opened his mouth wider again, moving closer. Whatever he had done to cool his master's passion, there might still be a chance to redeem his mistake.

“You needn't do that, Erasmus,” Master Torveld sighed, sitting back away from him.

Erasmus searched his expression as well as he could without looking directly for more than a moment at a time. He was frowning, his brows knitted tightly together, but there was no tension in his lips or jaw to signal anger. His eyes, turned calmly toward Erasmus, held the same muted distress he had seen in his friend when he shared the Veretian phrases he knew.

“Does it not please you?” he asked his master softly.

“I don't want to rush you.”

“This slave exists to serve your pleasure, Master Torveld,” Erasmus insisted, hoping his voice tilted more passionate than recitational, “Yours is the only pace that matters.”

He dared to lean closer again, closing a few of the inches between them, but froze when his master brought up a hand to hold him back at the shoulder. The air felt empty as Master Torveld shook his head; Erasmus did not understand his mistake. He had done just as he'd been taught.

“I have promised you to wait until we arrive in Patras. I mean to cherish you, Erasmus. I will not waste your First Night by rutting against a tree trunk.”

The air grew, somehow, thinner, and Erasmus felt his head spinning as he leaned away. He wrapped his arms around himself and looked toward the river. The horse was grazing lazily in the waning light. The phantom pressure of tree bark scratching at his skin made him shudder. His body was heavy, pinned in place; his mouth tasted of bile. A large hand brushed across his cheek, and he flinched so violently the jar of honey toppled over. Still breathless, he reached to set it right, and the same hand caught his and held it, its partner tilting the jar upright again.

“What is it?” Master Torveld asked, his voice quiet but firm, “Something I said?”

Erasmus shook his head, a tiny desperate motion. There was no way to answer his master safely. He allowed himself the insubordination of looking up to meet his master's eyes in order to plead with them. He could only pray his master would forgive him the need to answer.

“Please, tell me. You may speak freely,” Master Torveld whispered, and there was a note of pain there under the deep tones of his voice, “We cannot have secrets. I don't like seeing you so afraid.”

So there would be no escaping. Erasmus drew in a shaking breath and closed his eyes. He could not do this with Master Torveld's warm eyes staring into him. He was not sure he could do this at all, but he could no more easily refuse his master. Perhaps Master Torveld knew what he didn't, perhaps speaking the secret out loud would weaken it. Still he couldn't shake the feeling that he was about to destroy the fragile comfort he'd built in the past three weeks.

“It is not the first.”

Though he expected his master to recoil in disgust, perhaps only scowl if he tried to be kind, Erasmus received instead a gentle squeeze of his hand in response. His eyes cracked open, and his master's own were looking back at him with a soft kind of sadness.

“I know that, Erasmus,” he murmured, “I have known. It doesn't matter.”

“But...I,” he stammered, catching himself with a silent reprimand, “This slave is not...not pure.”

“It doesn't matter,” again, more emphatically, “You are perfect. Beautiful, and brave.”

What bravery was there in lying to his master? In falling apart over nothing? He was too weak even to perform his duties, useless and frail and trying desperately to keep Master Torveld from discovering it. He was too afraid to be cast away again. What bravery was that?

“I don't care whether you are untouched,” his master whispered into his silence, “I want to cherish you, not your purity. And you deserve a first night in a bed, treated gently and given pleasure. It will be our First, and so I am happy to wait for it. You don't need to offer yourself at every turn in order to keep my attention.”

Erasmus took one slow breath, in and out through his mouth. He looked at his lap, at the soft pink petals that now lay in disarray, fallen from his legs onto the blanket. He looked at his hand still held firmly in his master's, and felt the other in a tight fist at his side. He looked at the thick curls of his master's beard and the planes of his master's face and the deep brown of his master's eyes, and marveled that he was not told to look away.

“This slave does not...shame you? To-...to be already used, and broken. Skittish, and weak, and-”

“This slave, who sits before me,” Master Torveld's steady voice cut through the fumbling thread of his words, “Is exactly what I have wanted. More than I deserve. He serves me so thoughtfully that he forgets himself. But I am here, and I will care for him – him just exactly as he is – with a glad heart.”

“Such a burdensome slave must weigh heavy on an important man like Master Torveld,” Erasmus insisted quietly.

Master Torveld shook his head, moving closer to press his lips to the center of Erasmus' forehead, the space between his eyebrows, the tip of his nose, his own trembling lips. Then he sat back, and the smile he wore stretched into his eyes and upward. Erasmus found an echo of that smile settling on his own face.

“My worry is heavy. My desire to see you happy and confident and whole. But you, Erasmus, you are a joy that makes my heart light enough to fly.”

Erasmus could not stop the tears as they welled up and ran down his cheeks, not the first few. He wiped them away, almost held in the rest. But then Master Torveld was pressed close again, kissing him so sweetly he couldn't think, and the tears ran wild. He laughed into his master's lips. It was more a breath than anything, a sigh that carried out some darkness with it. But then he was truly laughing, tears dampening both their faces as Master Torveld held him and kissed him and imprinted that smile into his skin.

When they stopped, Erasmus' eyes and lips were reddened, and the sun was tilted toward its descent. Master Torveld leaned back against the tree, eyes still on Erasmus, full of a glowing sort of affection. Erasmus wiped his cheeks dry and smiled. He glanced at the food sitting next to them, almost as scattered as the petals that lay everywhere around.

“I am not hungry,” Master Torveld announced, “But we cannot waste the food. Eat. I will get the horse ready.”

Erasmus hesitated only a moment, then reached forward and spread honey on a piece of bread. He added cheese and took a bite, glancing at his master, who had not moved.

“Soon,” Master Torveld chuckled, still smiling, relaxed and easy, “I will get the horse ready soon.”

Erasmus glanced down to hide the sparkle of amusement in his eyes, even as he smiled around his next bite of bread. They had to rejoin the others soon. But perhaps, for now, there was no need to worry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erasmus made it over the first of many hurdles to come, but there's still lots more healing and romance to look forward to!
> 
> (Thanks for your patience! I'm really enjoying writing this fic, and I always love everyone's comments~ <3 You guys are great!)


	6. Healing and Homecoming

The mountain loomed above them as they approached in the fading light. In truth, it had loomed over them all afternoon and most of the morning, growing steadily closer and more towering. To Torveld, a beacon of home. On the other side of this mountain range lay five days of travel over flat plains straight into Bazal. But Erasmus, who had been happily recounting Akielon myths to Torveld since lunch, had grown quiet and tense since their party slipped under the shadow of the mountain. His head tilted back, burnished curls falling past his ears and catching the rosy light of the setting sun. Without leaning to look at his face Torveld knew his eyes were fixed upward at the mountain. He lifted his own gaze. Nothing but the brown of the rock face speckled in green by shrubbery.

“What is troubling you, dear one?”

Erasmus startled only slightly, his head tilting forward again. He turned in Torveld's arms and looked up at him hesitantly, cheeks a soft pink. Before he spoke, he had dropped his gaze again, but Torveld smiled all the same. It seemed longer than yesterday.

“It's very tall. Is it...is it not dangerous, up so high?”

“Ah,” Torveld breathed, then chuckled at his own folly, “It is dangerous at the apex. But we will not go that high. The path winds between this mountain and its neighbor. It goes barely higher than the cliffs at Ios, I believe.”

“Does Master Torveld travel this path often?”

“No, not often. But we took this path on the way to Arles. Wagons and all. We passed it safely.”

Erasmus nodded, his lips pursing with a soft puff of air, and then his face brightened with a delicate smile that still took Torveld's breath in its newness. The smile only grew when Torveld reached up to run the back of his knuckles across Erasmus' cheek. He let his hand return to rest on Erasmus' waist.

“What is 'apex'?” Erasmus asked, voice soft and unexpected, “This slave has not heard it in his lessons on Patras.”

Torveld tilted his head, then looked up again at the mountain, eyes raising all the way to its peak. Erasmus' weight pressed in against him, the boy's fluff of hair tickling his jaw and cheek.

“It means the highest part. We also say 'summit' for mountains, and 'apex' is used in mathematics.”

Erasmus nodded. Torveld listened as he tried out each new word, the foreign sounds first stumbling out and then rolling more naturally across his tongue. He did not have a strong accent in his usual speech either, Torveld reflected. A picture floated through his mind of Erasmus, determined and bright, reciting Patran words to the flowers of Ios' famous gardens.

“What is the word in Akielon?” he asked with a smile.

“Oh...ah...” Erasmus struggled for a moment, brows knitted in reflection, and finally gave a helpless shake of his head. He smiled up at Torveld apologetically, his shoulders sunk down in chagrin.

“Palace slaves are not usually instructed in mathematics,” he explained.

“No, of course not,” Torveld murmured, caught by his thoughtlessness for the second time, only it did not strike him as worth chuckling this time around.

He looked once again at the rise of the mountain, the summit backlit by the sinking sun, the shadow stretching over and past them. Erasmus' hair, darkened in the fading light with no sun to catch its shine, seemed somehow more somber than Torveld had seen it before. Erasmus' lips turned down just barely, eyes wide in confused speculation; Torveld saw, for a split second, the face of his eldest nephew upturned and listening intently to his geometry tutor. And then the image faded, and Torveld was left with Erasmus, beautiful eyes watching him, long elegant limbs wrapped in the fine thick fabric of a prince's riding clothes, sitting easy in the saddle like any young nobleman. Torveld's hand drifted to Erasmus' wrist, tracing the hard edge of his golden cuff through the sleeve. Laurent's words of nearly a month ago echoed in his mind.

“...Master Torveld?”

The whispered question was pinched with worry. Torveld shook himself out of his own head and gave Erasmus a broad smile.

“Would you like to learn?”

“Learn? Learn...what?”

“Mathematics.”

Erasmus blinked, his shoulders pulling tight and his mouth turning even further into a frown.

“The trainers found it unseemly for a slave to learn anything beyond what was needed to best serve his master...”

Torveld channeled the sharp pang in his chest into a tightening of his arms around Erasmus. He let his smile grow wider before he leaned to press a kiss to Erasmus' temple. Then he met Erasmus' eyes and spoke with all the light, easy confidence a prince could muster.

“I will have to disagree with them. Knowledge in many subjects is admirable. I shall find you a fine tutor in Bazal. And a riding instructor.”

He could not be sure if it was excitement or fear that he saw in Erasmus' amber eyes before his expression smoothed into an accepting smile. He hoped it was the former.

“This slave will be happy to learn if it will please his master.”

They reached the edge of the mountain range, and Torveld reined his horse to a stop. A heavy feeling in his stomach plagued him as he dismounted and helped Erasmus to the ground. It did not pass as he oversaw the setup of their camp, Erasmus trailing behind him obedient and unobtrusive, nor as they sat down to dinner and Erasmus fed him small bites of dried meat without drawing even a glance from the advisers and guard captain who carried on the usual evening conversation with Torveld.

___________

The path over the mountains was just long enough that a slow-moving procession such as they were needed two days to cover it. They rode until just after dusk, a bit past midway, and stopped on a small plateau cleared of brush long ago for the purpose of travelers' camps. On two sides, it backed into the steep cliff of the rising mountain, with the path making up a third side; the fourth was open to the sky save the makeshift fence of waist-high boulders made by whatever wise merchant of old had first used this space to make camp. Torveld ordered the horses to be tied on one of the mountain sides, the wagons nearby at the other. He left the danger of the road and the cliff for his men, who could be trusted more than horses and wagons to stay clear of the danger. The guards, his soldiers, gathered naturally by the road and laid out their bedrolls. His advisers chose the cliff side, as did many servants; though some stayed near the wagons, as did the Akielon slaves, he noted.

“You're certain there's no way to throw up our tents, Your Highness?” asked Niallon while scuffing with distaste at the sandy dirt.

Torveld turned away from surveying the campsite in the dim light of the fires. Niallon was a young man, new to his service, and – if Torveld were to be frank – quite the spoiled brat. Torveld had yet to find a rhythm in their relationship. But perhaps with time and proper mentoring from his older, trusted advisers...

“It is past sunset. Even with the fires, there is not enough light to safely erect tents. We will survive one night under the stars.”

Niallon failed to conceal an irate sigh. Perhaps from lack of skill, perhaps from lack of any attempt. But he did not press the issue, and for that at least Torveld was thankful. He took another look around the camp – servants and soldiers gathering around various fires to shovel down a quick meal, Dagil carrying bedding to the wagon freshly emptied of slaves and Erasmus trailing in his wake with arms overflowing with small pillows, Corin seeing to it that the slaves were fed and settled in for the night, the rest of his advisors standing near the road where he'd directed them to gather – and then nodded decisively at Niallon.

“Well, let's get to the evening meeting, shall we? Everyone will be waiting by now.”

Servants were banking the fires by the time Torveld had finished speaking with his advisers, though it had not been so very long of a conversation. All the same, he was eager to tuck into bed and have Erasmus wrapped in his arms again. He moved swiftly toward the wagon where Dagil had laid out his bedding alongside the company's baggage. As he climbed up into the wagon, his face lifted to greet Erasmus with a warm smile; halfway in, arm still flexed and one leg dangling in the air, he stopped short. There was no one inside the wagon. He squinted and looked closer. Perhaps, in the dim light, he had not seen the boy laying there. But, even as he scanned each quadrant of the bedding, there was no sign of the mellow brown curls or limbs like molded bronze. Torveld dropped back to the ground. His boots crunched softly in the sandy dirt. Uneasiness settled over him with a muggy weight.

Erasmus could not have gotten lost, he knew; there was nowhere on this little plateau to be alone, let alone wander off to by accident. If he was not lost, what was he doing? Torveld hadn't set him to a task, and who else would have given him one? Dagil would just as soon do the task himself, or call for Korin if he was truly in need. Anyone else must know better than to ask a prince's personal slave to help with menial tasks around camp. Certainly they all knew not to ask any intimate service of Erasmus; Torveld had made that much abundantly clear weeks ago. But then, where was he? Torveld turned from the wagon and strode forward, eyes darting around the camp in search of one particular golden head. If only his eyes were younger...

He paused to pinch them tightly shut, fingers pressing into his temples as his head tilted back, and opened them again on the fullness of a gleaming moon. He blinked, squinted, eyebrows twitching. A rushed sigh expelled nowhere near enough of the uneasy murk in his chest, and he drew his eyes downward from the moon. In their descent, they snagged on a silhouette at the far edge of the camp: a fluff of hair and the slip of a long neck into slender shoulders, drifting toward a delicate waist that was swallowed by the black expanse of the boulder wall. Torveld dodged a soldier passing by on patrol and hurried across the camp.

Once he was closer, he slowed his steps. Erasmus was leaning against the wall, hands clasped around the rounded tips of two boulders, body tilted up and forward from his toes all the way to the crown of his head. He wasn't looking at the sky. He was looking down, over the edge. Torveld found his mouth battling between a smile and a worried reprimand.

“It seems my words were more reassuring than I guessed.”

Erasmus stiffened and pulled away from the rocks, turning his body toward Torveld. He was already folding to his knees in a bow, and Torveld darted forward a step to push him back upright. Erasmus' posture softened, limbs relaxing, but he kept his face tilted down.

“From Ios, it is a beautiful sight to look down off the cliffs toward the sea...."

“And you were curious if the sight is as beautiful from this cliff?” Torveld guessed.

Erasmus nodded his head and raised his face just slightly, peeking up through his bangs at Torveld. Just for a moment. Torveld wished he had looked for longer; those eyes were a more beautiful sight than any cliffside view.

“Well, is it?”

Erasmus smiled shyly, shrugging one thin shoulder. Torveld ran his hand across it, then up Erasmus' neck to cup the side of his face.

“The grass is...a sort of sea. It feels almost the same. Except the smell...and the sound.”

“This sea has no waves,” Torveld agreed with a soft laugh, “...Do you miss it? The sea at Ios.”

“This slave is happy to think of the future.”

“As am I. Yet that was not my question.”

“...This-this slave does not wish to be ungrateful...”

“There is nothing ungrateful in holding the past fondly in your mind.”

He stepped closer, just short of pressing their bodies together. One arm circled around Erasmus loosely, the other frozen as it was, holding Erasmus' head. The skin under his hands was cold in the moonlit air, but the trembling had a different source. Torveld leaned his body down and pressed a kiss to the top of Erasmus' head.

“Ios was everything this slave knew for so many years,” came the whisper, tiny and fragile, drifting to Torveld's ears, “It is difficult to... forget.”

“You don't have to forget, Erasmus. It was your home.”

“Master Torveld is this slave's home.”

“I think your heart is big enough to hold two homes, my dear.”

A moment of quiet. The trembling seemed to lessen. The next whisper was equally tiny, but Torveld thought he heard some hope in it.

“Two homes...?”

“Two homes,” Torveld echoed, voice balanced between tender and wistful, “I have spent more of my life at the Vaskian border, in and out of the empire, than I have spent in Bazal. Yet Bazal is where I grew from a child into a man. In my heart, they are both home.”

“Is it not lonely? In one home, and thinking about the other.”

“Lonely? Oh, yes,” Torveld answered, a warm laugh spilling from him like liquid and ending in a sharp point, “Yes, it can be very lonely.”

The air hung heavy around them as his words sunk away. He thought to send more to chase them down, hurry their retreat, but he found his mind empty of anything to soothe the truth of this. All he could think was how many mementos he had to ease the pain of leaving a home behind, and how Erasmus had none at all.

“Master Torveld's bed is inside the wagon,” Erasmus whispered, shifting closer and resting his forehead on Torveld's shoulder. His voice had shed its lost and fearful tone, smoothed out into its usual melody.

“Yes.”

“Master Torveld must want to rest soon.”

“I am content where I am for now.”

Erasmus pressed closer yet, tilted his head, until his cheek was flush with Torveld's chest. Torveld moved his hand to rest it in Erasmus' hair, cupped around the curve of his head. Erasmus smelled of almonds and cinnamon. He was no longer trembling, but warm and pliant, a reassuring weight against Torveld's body. Torveld was not certain if he was relieved or simply troubled in a new way.

___________

The next morning's travel was swift. By noon they were already well out onto the plains. Torveld, with his advisers, decided to press straight on without a midday meal rather than waste their momentum. Erasmus spoke little as they rode. He had leaned heavily on Torveld as they made their way down the mountain, and Torveld had made no protest. When they passed to the plains, Erasmus sat up straighter, head twitching this way and that, and Torveld had little idea what there was to see in an expanse of grass just like every other they'd passed through, but he made no protest. Erasmus was equally quiet as he served at dinner, and asleep by the time Torveld returned from meeting with his advisers. The party was a full half-day ahead of schedule. A long day in the saddle with no rest could tire out anyone. Torveld sent a messenger to update his brother on their progress and settled into bed beside his exhausted slave.

___________

The rest of the journey managed the same pace, even the wagons sailing over the plains like leaves down a coursing river. But Erasmus was quite the opposite of their first day in Patras. He was an endless well of questions; though at first he had asked tentatively and paused for great lengths between them, by the third day Torveld could scarcely find a silent moment to check their position. He explained as well as he could the workings of the palace staff and the menu of the palace kitchen. He spoke at length about the daily customs of his people, and every fine point of seasonal festivals, and architecture and interior decoration and gardening. He was nearly exhausted by the time the questions turned – with a delicate and apologetic hum – to current relationships among nobles and the atmosphere of the court.

“My dear, you are insatiable,” he finally sighed, letting his weary head droop forward until it landed softly on top of Erasmus' own.

“Ah,” Erasmus gasped, going quite still, and then spoke softly but with increasing speed, “Has this slave been too bold? Please forgive this slave's impertinence in not considering his master's needs more carefully. Master Torveld is weary of questions."

Torveld sighed again and shook his head. He leaned up to stretch his back and shoulders, then returned his arms to their resting place around Erasmus' waist. He'd welcomed the curiosity when the questions began, but as they gathered more power from Erasmus' nervous energy they had become harder to weather. Perhaps he should have been yet more patient.

“Erasmus, there's no need to apologize. You have every reason to be curious,” he murmured into the young man's hair, “I am glad to see you speaking more openly.”

“...but you are weary,” Erasmus breathed, like the confirmation of dreaded news, adding in a desperate rush, “This slave will be more attentive in the future.”

“It's all right, Erasmus,” Torveld said again, “I'm not angry.”

They rode in quiet the rest of the day. Torveld found he preferred the questions to this fraught silence. How had he forgotten so quickly that Erasmus, silent and full of worry, lost all of the beauty he had when content? At dinner, Torveld made an extra effort to soothe the boy with gentle touches and warm compliments. By the time he rose from the fireside to meet his advisers, Erasmus was once again a perfect picture of soft blushes and shy smiles.

He sent one last messenger, to inform his brother they would arrive midmorning the next day and apologize for being so much earlier than expected, before returning to his tent for this last night. Erasmus was still awake. Torveld sat down on the bed and pulled him close.

“You will be welcome in Bazal,” he said, and did not say as you were not in Arles, “You and the others. Appreciated, as you would have been in Akielos.”

He half-expected Erasmus to murmur some empty rote phrase of gratitude, and he braced himself for it. A deflection meant to flatter and distract when Erasmus feared to speak of what was truly on his mind. Torveld wondered if it was such with all slaves. He wondered, if it was, how he had never seen it for that before.

“In Akielos, this slave was intended for Crown Prince Damianos.”

A breath escaped Torveld all at once, and he felt his face fall into open surprise. He turned his head to look more closely at Erasmus, but the young man was staring forward, eyes fixed on a candle as his head rested on Torveld's shoulder.

“It was decided as soon as this slave arrived at the palace,” he continued quietly, “Damianos-exalted rarely took male slaves, but....he favored a certain coloring.”

Torveld listened and did not understand. He knew already, from Prince Laurent's pet, that Erasmus had been trained for Damianos. But Erasmus had never mentioned it before. Until that night in the mountains he had mentioned precious little about his past at all.

“The training was strict, but this slave was happy...it was a high honor, to belong to the Crown Prince,” Erasmus said, and seemed to falter over his next words, “There was comfort, in knowing one's future. One's place in the world.”

Torveld pressed Erasmus closer, arm tightening around him. He thought, perhaps, he was coming to understand Erasmus' message. The candles flickered in a light breeze from the tent flaps. He waited for Erasmus to say more, but the silence lingered.

“It is not Ios, and I am not Damianos, and much will be different and unknown,” Torveld spoke at length, “But you are secure in my care. My home is yours. Your place is at my side.”

He turned Erasmus in his arms and brought them together in a gentle kiss. Erasmus melted into him, but when Torveld pulled back, there was still a hesitance in his soft brown eyes. A fragile secret held carefully apart. Torveld brought up a hand to caress Erasmus' cheek, letting all his fondness seep into the smile he offered the boy.

“I will do what I can to keep the others in the palace. The company of friends may ease the adjustment.”

A slight tremor ran through Erasmus' jaw, and the secret in his eyes seemed to swell outward. He closed his eyes, and Torveld brushed away the hint of a tear with his thumb. When Erasmus opened his eyes, whatever had been there was gone. He smiled, expression soft, and leaned forward to invite Torveld into another kiss.

“Thank you,” he breathed into Torveld's lips as they came together, simple and unadorned, open in a way all the rote phrases of gratitude had not been.

Torveld felt his throat catch. He thought of the joy he felt holding his first niece while his brother, proud and beaming, had stood guard at his shoulder – receiving a gift he had not understood the value of until he held it in his arms, the suffocating and heady delight of it.

___________

Their arrival in Bazal was a familiar pleasure for Torveld. He rode at the head of the procession with a broad smile and waved to his brother's subjects, his people, as they thronged around the road to welcome their prince home. As a young man, returning from the Vaskian border for important occasions, each procession through the main gates and the city to the palace had brought a swell of pride and love to his heart. As he aged, the feeling had mellowed into something like a comforting caress; he was surrounded by the warmth of his people's welcome, and he was quietly glad. Today was no different, even if the weight of Erasmus against his body brought an extra warmth to him. An excited murmur ran through the crowd – who was that in the prince's arms? It must have truly been a successful visit in Vere – as Torveld's procession made its way down the wide main street.

Once through the palace gates, Torveld pulled his horse aside and to a stop. Advisers and guards followed suit, and the wagons with their entourage of servants pulled toward the stables on the far side of the palace. Torveld dismounted with a heavy exhale and then breathed in deeply the air of his home. The smack of boots on pavement told him the others were also dismounting around him. Erasmus, still in the saddle, was staring through his curled bangs at the palace's facade. Torveld smiled up at him.

The trill of horns dragged Torveld's attention away from Erasmus. He looked toward the palace entrance. The doors had been thrown open. Heralds stood at each side blowing out the exuberant notes of King Torgeir's royal theme. Torgeir himself was already standing in front of the heralds, at the edge of the palace's shallow steps on the wide stone landing. Torveld had always told him the theme was too long; the heralds were still playing even as he raised his hand in official royal greeting to the party.

Torveld raised his hand in an echoing gesture, stepping forward to make obeisance to his king. As he straightened up, smiling widely, the heralds finally put down their horns and stood at attention, the last notes of the song fading into the late morning air. Torgeir met his eyes with an acknowledging nod, a more reserved smile teasing at his lips under the thick beard he wore.

“Dearest brother, we welcome you back home. You must have come on the wing to arrive so quickly.”

“Only by the fleet foot of royal stallions, my King,” Torveld answered, “And fortune's favor.”

“A fortunate son you are indeed,” Torgeir said evenly, but there was a chuckle twinkling in his eyes.

“Perhaps,” Torveld said with a grin, “There is yet more good fortune from this journey. I bear news of favorable trade agreements, and a most generous loan from the Regent of Vere.”

Torgeir's eyes drifted over the men bustling in the courtyard. The guards had drawn their horses away toward the stables, and the advisers were making their own obeisance to Torgeir while stableboys saw to their horses. Torveld's horse stood where he had left it, snuffling calmly at the ground, and Erasmus too sat where Torveld had left him, atop the horse as lovely as a painting and looking vaguely dazzled. Torgeir did not look away as he spoke again.

“We are greatly interested to hear of all the fortunate happenings of your journey, brother. Are you not too weary from travel for a private audience?”

“Not at all, my King. If I may beg a moment to gather myself, shall I meet you in the audience chamber?”

A minute shake of Torgeir's head, and his eyes found their way to Torveld again significantly more clouded than a moment before. Torveld straightened his shoulders and kept his expression calm.

“We will receive you in our private offices. Until then.”

Torgeir inclined his head, and Torveld bowed shallowly. Then Torgeir greeted the advisers perfunctorily, and disappeared back into the palace to the notes of his herald's horns. Torveld sighed through his nose. Something had certainly put his brother in a sour mood.

He dismissed the advisers for the day with heartfelt thanks for their help during the journey. Niallon was the first to rush into the palace; likely, he was off to find his lover, the beautiful young daughter of a trusted noble. Torveld shook his head with a soft laugh. He walked back to his horse, drew his hand up to rest on Erasmus' knee, and looked up at the young man.

“Welcome to Bazal, dear one.”

Erasmus met his eyes with a smile that was at once uncertain and exultant. This time, the gaze held long enough for Torveld to get a bit lost in those warm brown eyes. His face split into a delighted smile, and he reached up to help Erasmus down to the ground. Erasmus leaned into him easily and slipped down to stand inside Torveld's embrace.

“It's beautiful. Even more than this slave had imagined from Master Torveld's description.”

“A good place to call home?”

“Yes,” a soft excited laugh, and an even softer catch at the end, “Yes. It feels right.”

Torveld tilted Erasmus' face up and pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his lips. Erasmus flushed all across his cheeks, and his eyes when they separated were like melted chocolate. He was still smiling.

“My precious Erasmus.”

Near at hand, someone politely cleared their throat, and Torveld reluctantly looked away from Erasmus in the direction of the sound. Dagil was standing a few paces away with an indulgently apologetic smile. Torveld was abruptly reminded of countless moments in his youth, caught in a moment of dalliance with a lover when he was expected elsewhere. He laughed, quiet at first and then a fuller, rolling sound.

“It has been years since you have summoned me with that look, Dagil.”

“It has been years since it was needed, Your Highness.”

Erasmus tucked himself closer to Torveld, and if Dagil's widening smile was any indication, the cause was an overwhelming surge of embarrassment. He ran his hand over Erasmus' back, slow and soothing. The boy seemed to relax, but still did not withdraw from his hiding.

“I assume my presence is missed in the King's office,” Torveld said at length, when he had calmed his laughter.

“Your Highness assumes correctly, astute as always,” Dagil confirmed with just a hint of amusement.

“Make sure Erasmus is looked after. He'll need to get ready before the banquet.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Torveld carefully pushed Erasmus away, pressing a brief kiss to his forehead to ease the separation for them both. With a quiet promise to see him again soon, he turned away and nodded to Dagil. The old servant nodded back, his face still plastered with the same indulgent smile. Torveld shook his head with a final quiet laugh and walked into the palace.

___________

Torgeir was sitting at his drawing table when Torveld walked into his offices. There was a mug of cool water in front of him, and a handful of papers scattered out across the table. Torgeir was leaned back against the dark carved wood of his chair, hand raised to his shoulder with fingers working deep into the tired muscle, his mouth turned down in a grimace. It was the shoulder of his sword arm, which had been troubling him more and more in recent years. He looked up as Torveld entered, but did not immediately speak. Torveld took it upon himself to break the tension.

“You could have a slave do that for you, brother. I'm sure they'd have a better angle.”

Torgeir leveled him the same look afforded to the twins when they were found skipping their lessons in order to play in the palace gardens. Torveld smiled calmly and stepped forward. Among the papers on the table were his own notes about the journey, sent each week by messenger. Tiny words in his brother's handwriting were dotted along the margins; Torgeir would have debriefed the messengers while he read, as always. One paper was laid off to the side near the mug. It was signed with a careful “L” in the Veretian script.

“If you like, I can ask my Erasmus to work on your shoulder. The Akielon style of massage is really quite soothing.”

“Erasmus,” Torgeir repeated, rolling the syllables thoughtfully over his tongue, “That would be the pretty slave who rode in on your horse? I don't remember putting Akielon slaves on the agenda for our trade with Vere.”

“Strictly speaking, the slaves are a loan. A permanent sort of loan,” Torveld replied, clarifying after a short pause, “I didn't promise anything in return.”

“Oh, you didn't?” Torgeir scoffed.

Torveld followed his brother's gaze to the letter signed in Veretian. He sighed heavily. It had come much earlier than he'd expected; he had hoped to be in Bazal to receive it himself after breaking this news to Torgeir more gently.

“Not to the Regent.”

“So it's not, strictly speaking, a trade,” Torgeir huffed, “Yet I question how much that matters, here between us.”

“Brother,” Torveld began, but Torgeir raised his hand and cut him off.

“You promised me, Torveld. We need to stay neutral until this succession conflict resolves itself. Patras can't afford to make an enemy of either one of them.”

“And I haven't, Torgeir.”

“You can't march to battle with one man and not make his opponent your enemy!” Torgeir snapped, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

Torgeir picked up the letter from Laurent and stood. He held the letter out toward Torveld, shaking it emphatically. Torveld grimaced.

“He's asking you for an army, Torveld! Not a quiet vote of support, not a small force for a skirmish, a proper army!” Torgeir railed, “I sent you to Vere to renew a trade agreement, and you have returned ready to go to war for the throne of someone else's country!"

“It will not endanger Patras,” Torveld spoke as calmly as he could, but found his voice was not quite even, “The Regent knows nothing of my agreement with Laurent. I would have discussed it with you, but there wasn't time to wait.”

“The Regent will know when he sees Patran soldiers fighting against his own.”

“It may not even come to that. Laurent has assured me he will try ev-”

“And what value is his word? He is a spoiled courtier, untested in either battle or governance.”

Torveld felt a rise of anger surging from his belly, but he held it down. His brother was only thinking to protect their country, as was his duty. Both of their duties. And he did not know the truth; he couldn't be held in contempt for his words against Laurent. He took a breath and made himself speak slowly.

“When I met him, I found him to be an intelligent and honorable man.”

Torgeir snorted, a derisive puff of air that stirred the strands of his dark and graying beard. He dropped the letter back onto the table and crossed his arms. Torveld stood straight under the withering force of his brother's disbelieving glare.

“Your new slave – Erasmus? - possesses a rather stunning beauty. Fair skin and golden hair. Sitting so nicely in his blue riding clothes. Definitely not the usual way to dress a pleasure slave.”

“I was concerned about the sun damaging his skin,” Torveld said, watching his brother closely, “Prince Laurent kindly gave us some old clothes he didn't need. They are of a size.”

“They are of much more than a size.”

“I don't see how it's relevant.”

Torgeir let out a great heaving sigh. He shrugged with the full length of his arms and then sat back down in his chair. And waited. Torveld crossed his arms, jaw working in irritation.

“I am not some moonstruck young man starting fights over a pretty face, Torgeir. You know me. I would never make a political choice over a passing fancy.”

“No, you wouldn't,” Torgeir agreed quietly, expression clouded, “All the more reason I am upset....has he smitten you this much? Next you'll tell me you plan to marry Vere's wayward prince.”

Torveld heard himself laugh before he felt the spasms of it in his belly. Laurent was beautiful, to be sure, and at that banquet one month ago he had been more than charmed. But there was an untouchable quality to the young prince; Torveld doubted he would consent to be bedded, much less wed. And in one month much had changed. Laurent's beauty, in Torveld's mind's eye, was entirely eclipsed by Erasmus' smile and his thoughtful eyes.

“No, brother. I may be smitten, but it is not by the Prince of Vere,” he said and held Torgeir's gaze, “I took the slaves to protect them, and I have chosen sides in the succession conflict because it's what's right. Laurent is a good man. The Regent is dangerous.”

Torgeir listened, and finally his face smoothed out of its previous troubled anger. Torveld smiled, and his brother smiled back, and weight of tension lifted from the air between them.

“All right,” Torgeir sighed, “All right, brother. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive. You saw the results before I had a chance to explain my choice. Any man would have had doubts.”

“Even of his dear and loyal little brother?”

“Even then,” Torveld chuckled, “Now, this may take awhile. So let's send for lunch.”

Torgeir nodded, brows raised slightly and lips upturned. By the time lunch had been brought and laid out by palace servants, Torveld had recounted his time in Vere to his brother. He spoke of the rift running between factions, hidden just under the surface, of the unsettling feeling that nothing was as it seemed. He spoke of Laurent and how he defied his negative reputation, being a young man of wit and good character by Torveld's estimation. He spoke of the Regent's warm reception and grand words of friendship, and of Erasmus and his burns, and the treatment the Regent had permitted of his gift slaves. He spoke of the suspicions Laurent had shared of the Regent's desire to invade Akielos; evidence, shared in secret and compelling if not entirely conclusive, that the Regent's lust for empire would not stop with that invasion. Torgeir listened, asked questions to clarify, and came around quickly to Torveld's conviction about who needed to be the next King of Vere. The afternoon sun was stretching long by the time he and Torgeir brought their discussion to an end. It would not be the last on the subject. There were still strategies to discuss, troops to be organized.... But the banquet was starting soon, and they both of them needed a rest from such dark topics.

Torveld rose from his seat and stretched. Torgeir was at it again with his shoulder, brows knitted and eyes mostly closed as his fingers sought to ease the ache of old muscles. Torveld's own body was sore, aching from long travel and underuse. If he didn't keep active, he felt his age all the more in his body. He resolved to get in some exercise the next day, but first a warm soak.

“Off to the baths then,” he decided aloud, “See you soon, brother.”

“Soon,” Torgeir agreed with a quick nod, then summoned a smile to add, “Welcome home, Torveld.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time no see! I got busy at work and had a lot more social obligations and got into a bit of a slump, so this chapter took a long time to take shape. But I've got the next one partly written already, and should be posting it within a couple weeks! It'll come with a rating increase ;) Thanks for sticking with me through the long wait~ Hope you enjoyed the chapter!!


	7. Cross the Threshold

Erasmus had watched Master Torveld until he'd disappeared through the front doors of the palace, and kind old Dagil had not admonished him. Erasmus knew it was selfish to linger when he'd been instructed to ready himself for a banquet. He knew also that the strong line of Master Torveld's shoulders as he strode powerfully across the courtyard had made his chest and belly ache with something warm and longing. Now, following Dagil through the unadorned servants' passages inside the palace, he nursed the pleasant ache with memories: sturdy arms pressing him softly into a broad chest, a smile set in a shaggy beard, his name whispered in a low and commanding voice, a kiss beneath a cherry tree.

Caught in daydreams, he sensed Dagil stopping in front of him only barely in time. His feet, in the riding boots, skidded softly on the stone floor as he cut short his stride and came to a stop one handspan from Dagil's back. The old servant turned around with a smile. Erasmus took two hurried steps back, the flush already set across his cheeks deepening from embarrassment.

“Distracted, are we?” Dagil chuckled.

“Ah,” Erasmus breathed, unable to stop from fidgeting as his embarrassment skyrocketed, “It....it will be....my master, tonight....he h-has...”

“Goodness, boy.”

Dagil reached out and touched Erasmus on the shoulder, even gave it a soft squeeze. This calmed Erasmus' fidgeting, but being still only seemed to make his embarrassment more torturous.

“You don't have to say it. His Highness has implied what makes tonight important for you,” Dagil assured, “But there is no shame in being excited, Erasmus. He would want you to look forward to a night of pleasure together.”

Erasmus met Dagil's eyes, his cheeks still burning, but his heart partly eased. There was only kindness and a hint of amusement in the old servant's eyes. Erasmus felt himself relax, bit by bit.

“Truly?” he whispered, and felt a mantra from the training gardens rise up and spill out of him, “But to wallow in my own pleasure without thinking of my master's...it is shameful.”

“Your pleasure is his as well,” Dagil said simply as he lifted his hand away, still smiling.

Before Erasmus could reply, Dagil had opened a door that lay in front of them. Erasmus had not realized it was there. Once it lay open, he looked through to the room within. Gray stone walls, roughhewn and sweating from the steam that soaked the air. On the side opposite the door, a window began at waist height and rose to an arch well above where Erasmus' head would reach; it was more a carving than a window, patterns and shapes traced in stone that left only small gaps of open space. Light filtered inside in tiny scattered beams and fell upon the footstep-smoothed boulders that made up the floor, casting pools of light and shadow on the uneven surface. And in the center, the bath itself, a deep pool that oozed steam upward and through the room, just long enough for a tall man to stretch out in, wide enough that two or three could float side by side in the dark water. Erasmus could feel, even at the threshold, the wet air stealing over his skin and into his lungs.

“Natural hot springs,” Dagil said, “The baths in Bazal are all fed by a network of them, underground the city.”

“In Akielos, the water is heated mechanically,” Erasmus murmured.

“Yes,” Dagil chuckled, “A secret well-guarded by your kings. Luckily, Patras has not much needed it. Take your time, enjoy the water. I'll fetch you before too long.”

Erasmus nodded and stepped inside, already buzzing with the heat of the space. Dagil offered him one more gentle smile before closing the door and leaving Erasmus to himself in the 'hot springs' bath. It felt both familiar and foreign. Closer to home, at least, than the obscenely decorated baths of Arles, with their cool stone alcoves and clear air. Everything here was steam and heat. Erasmus remembered the day he had been sent to the gardens at Ios, how he had lain in the steam until his body grew heavy and moving felt like swimming in honey. That day, everything had been white marble and blinding promise. Erasmus leaned back against the dark stone that enclosed him, let his eyes drift shut, and breathed in slow and deep and deliberate, drawing the steam and heat into himself. Maybe he could melt in it, become part of it, let it become part of him.

_Your pleasure is his as well..._

Damianos – beloved and exalted prince, his would-be master of a not even a half year ago – had been reputed to enjoy his partners' pleasure. A proof of his own prowess, to reduce his partner to a mess of desperate moans and longing aches. He had given pleasure generously and received it back in double measure. Or so Erasmus had been told. And how he had dreamed of opening to that pleasure, surrendering to such a master. He had imagined Damianos handsome and gentle; he had imagined himself bursting with the joy of submission as this prince, this god, enjoyed everything he had to give. And he would have given everything there was.

Erasmus felt his heart aching, heavy and twisted in his chest. He pulled away from the wall, drifted over slippery stone to the edge of the soaking pool. Even this close, he couldn't see the bottom; the stone was all the same color, dark and obscure, and the air was thick with steam. He could feel it on his eyelashes. He would have given everything there was....his mouth tasted sour, pasty and thick. For every night he laid awake dreaming of his first with Damianos, he could count at least as many when he laid awake dreaming of his reunion with Kallias. The ache he felt on those nights, laying so still on his pallet with his arms drawn above his head, echoed in the flame that tore into his blood on the night of his and Kallias' intimate embrace on the balcony. A fool dreaming only of his own pleasure, taking pride in his submission, while he swore to himself it was all in the service of his master. He had not deserved Damianos. He had not deserved Kallias. And his friend had seen the taint in him.

Erasmus wondered how drowning would feel. The steam filled his lungs with suffocating heat; would a breathful of water burn the same way? Or would it be a crushing pressure, swallowing up his air until he was numb with it, immobile and empty and overflowing with a heavy ache? Maybe, he thought, it would not hurt at all, but be peaceful like falling asleep. He knelt down at the edge of the pool and reached into it. His fingertips dipped under the surface of the grey-black water, and a fresh gasp of heat shot up into his skin. He felt soft and heavy. If he leaned a bit more forward, maybe he would slide into the pool like honey flowing off a long spoon. He drew his fingers slowly through the water in abstract shapes, the notes of Damianos' favorite song on the kithara, the shape of Kallias' eyes, the curve of Master Torveld's smile and the outline of his beard. One breath in, and one out, so slow it felt like not breathing at all.

He moved away from the edge of the soaking pool. There was a basin with a rag and soaps in the corner for washing. He sat next to it and poured soap into his hair. The steam made his movements slow, sleepy, as he worked the soap through the mass of curls. When he rinsed, suds flowed down his chest and swirled across his lap. He imagined Master Torveld's callused fingers tracing the same path, and the smile that would reach the man's eyes as he arched toward the touch, as he was sure to do. Whenever Master Torveld laid hands on him, he couldn't help pressing into them, wanting more.

_You, Erasmus...are a joy that makes my heart light enough to fly._

Erasmus' breath caught at the memory, so much more vivid than his self-indulgent imaginings. He blinked away a swell of tears and pressed the back of his hand to his mouth to stifle the sob that threatened in the back of his throat. Damianos had never gotten the chance to find it, but Kallias had seen Erasmus for what he really was, under his pretense of being a proper slave. And so Kallias had spared the Crown Prince the embarrassment of having Erasmus in his household, and Erasmus had gotten exactly what he deserved. In Vere, they had known him worth nothing, not a First Night or even being taken in an actual bed. And even then he had yearned, audaciously, for better; for a master of his own, for gentler treatment, for pleasure, when he had done nothing to earn it. And now....

There was soap on his tongue, and the room was full of his crying, stone walls reverberating with pathetic sobs. He tore his hand away from his mouth and curled in on himself, burying his face in his knees instead. From here, vision wobbling through tears, he could see the scars from where he'd been burned, light pink against milky skin kept safe from the sun. Ugly. Weak. Selfish. Worthless.

Now he had what he had wished for, those long terrible nights in Vere. What he had wished for all his life, since his first memories in the gardens of Nereus. He belonged to someone good and noble, to a handsome and gentle man who treasured him; he would have a First Night and a position of privilege in a prince's household. In some moments, especially under the light of Master Torveld's smile, he felt ready to burst with his joy. But in others he remembered and despaired. He was tainted from the start, even before the guard in the Veretian gardens. He did not deserve Master Torveld. Yet somehow, Master Torveld wanted him, favored him, and was so patient with his failings. Erasmus already had so much more than he ever deserved, and still he was terrified of the moment when Master Torveld grew tired of him. There would not be a third chance, he was sure.

Erasmus lost track of time as he cried. When he finally lifted his head, the room was still as thick with steam as ever, and the air was no cooler. The thought came to him slowly that perhaps this room was always just as warm and full of steam; if the hot water was natural, not mechanical as in Akielos, it must be so. He wiped his eyes and tried to be amazed. Muscles languid, he coated his hands in soap and washed the rest of his body, moving automatically with longtime habit, his mind foggy and numb. 

The water in the basin was just as warm as everything else in the room, and he almost longed for cool water as he poured it over himself to rinse. Now clean, he slid carefully over to the soaking pool and once more stared down into its unknown depths. It couldn't be that deep; it was a bath, not an ocean. He dropped down into it one leg at a time, hands gripping at the slippery stones on the edge as he sank further in. Just as his shoulders dropped under the water, he felt solid stone under his toes. With a heavy sigh, he settled back on his heels and stood in the pool. He closed his eyes and turned his face up and breathed in, deep and slow, just as he had earlier.

There would not be a third chance. But he had this one, this gift of a second chance, and he was not going to waste it or let it slip away. If he was not, deep in his heart, the proper slave he ought to be, then at least he would pretend. Master Torveld was an intelligent man; if he saw something in Erasmus worth valuing, it must be there somewhere. Erasmus was going to find whatever tiny speck there was and nurture it. He was going to become whatever he needed to be to keep Master Torveld's affection. Without his master, his good kind master, he would be lost. He needed someone to belong to. No matter what it took.

Erasmus drew in one deep breath and slid under the water, then slowly let out a little air until he could float below the surface. He reached up and stretched his fingers up above the surface, opening his eyes to watch them splayed out in the twinkle of light from the window, split into a shape almost like a star by the ripples of the water. The pool was not so deep; this wasn't drowning at all.

___________

Dagil had helped Erasmus dry off after fetching him from the bath. He had also fussed over him, apologized for leaving him so long in the heavy steam when he wasn't accustomed to it; Erasmus, though his legs had felt unsteady as he applied scented oils, had insisted there was no need to worry. But he had gladly drunk all of the cool water Dagil handed him in a brimming mug. It had tasted like lemons, and reminded him of summertime in Ios. 

Then Dagil had helped him into a Patran tunic, cream colored and trimmed in dark green embroidery. The fabric was fine and smooth, and fell loosely around him, covering him to his knees and elbows though the deep v cut between his collarbones did bare a sliver of his chest. Now, as he followed Dagil down a servants' corridor, he looked at himself in the pale tunic, at the woven green belt resting loose above his hips and the leather sandals in the same color laced and tied just above his ankles, and privately decided this suited him much better than Prince Laurent's riding clothes had.

Dagil turned and opened a door off the corridor, and this time Erasmus stopped in plenty of time. He looked around as they walked inside the room, and his eyes fell upon the other 23 slaves from Akielos, sitting or kneeling or resting against the walls in fresh new silks. A handful of Patran servants were moving around the room, passing out bread and cheese, and in the corner another was helping Mara paint her face. There was a faint murmur of excited chatter, and the sound was not laced with fear; the room smelled just slightly of the Patran soaps he had used in the bath. His cheeks stretched to contain the smile that split across his face. Dagil, at his left, leaned close and nudged him forward.

“This is the staging room, for the banquet,” he whispered, “Go on and catch up while you get ready. There's plenty of time. It's barely past noon.”

Erasmus took a step forward, then paused and turned to Dagil. He gestured vaguely at the room.

“We...we will enter the banquet together? All of us?”

“Yes, yes, Prince Torveld will make a speech and then you'll all come out and be presented as a group,” Dagil nodded, adding with a knowing smile, “But afterward he's asked that you sit next to him while the others attend the meal.”

Erasmus flushed pink and nodded with a quick, shy smile. He wondered if Dagil was particularly good at reading people, or if he was just that obvious about his feelings. The old servant could always tell when he was thinking about Master Torveld, or hoping to see him again soon. He supposed it didn't matter much; seeming eager to spend more time with his master could hardly be a bad trait. Perhaps Dagil would talk to their master about Erasmus' eagerness. Perhaps Master Torveld would smile when he heard of it.

“All right, now, my moonstruck boy, let's wake up,” Dagil admonished, but he was laughing kindly even as he took Erasmus' shoulders and steered him forward a few steps, “Your friends, and your lunch, are waiting.”

Dagil gave him one final nudge, and then the knotted old hands lifted from his shoulders and the presence at his back drifted away. The door clicked softly shut once Dagil had exited. Erasmus rushed forward and folded to his knees next to a group of three slaves sharing a plate of bread and cheese. Narsis, Astacos, and Charis, a girl of twenty - a latebloomer, like Erasmus - from the female training grounds, with a sweet disposition and no patience for the forms. Charis was the first to notice him, and she offered a bright smile and a large piece of cheese.

“Erasmus! You look well!”

Erasmus grinned and nodded as he accepted the cheese. Charis returned to preparing her own slice of bread, though her eyes didn't leave Erasmus. Narsis looked up, smiling with lips closed around a mouth full of cheese. Astacos stayed as he was, leaned against the wall and frowning into space with closed eyes.

“Master Torveld treats me very kindly,” Erasmus said, “I'm feeling...much better.”

“Ah, I'm so glad to hear it,” Charis sighed, eyes softening with relief, “We've been worried, you know. And of course, the guards and servants were all kind to us, much more like home, and Narsis insisted it would have to be the same for you, but we couldn't ask, with him keeping you so much at his side, and....well, after everything that's happened. I worried.”

“It's like I told you,” Narsis cut in, “The Prince just didn't want to spare his company. That servant, the young one, he said Erasmus rode on the Prince's horse, even.”

“On a horse? Is that true?” Charis gasped, and Erasmus had to laugh, and then all three of them were laughing, eyes shining with it.

“Y-yes, it's true,” Erasmus answered finally, when he'd caught his breath, “I was so scared at first about falling off. But it's not as hard as it looks, just sitting. Master Torveld controlled the horse, and he's very good at it.”

“Well, a prince would be,” Narsis said with a thoughtful nod, eyes still full of laughter.

“I suppose,” Erasmus giggled, “But Master Torveld especially. He likes to hunt on horseback.”

“Oh, does he?” Charis prompted, smiling with polite curiosity around a bite of bread.

“Mm,” Erasmus nodded, his cheeks turning slightly pink as he recalled their long talks during the ride from Arles, “He favors it, but he hunts on foot sometimes, too. He likes the outdoors. When he was at the border he would fish and swim in the mountain streams. But, you know, he's never swum in the ocean? Except from Ios, he's never even seen it.”

“You know him so well already,” Charis gushed, clasping her hands over her heart, “Ah, Erasmus, I'm so happy for you! And only a little bit jealous.”

She winked, mischievous but not unkind. Erasmus laughed, only slightly breathless, only slightly forced. He pushed away the fear that prickled at him. Master Torveld wanted him. Charis was his friend. His happiness was safe. There was nothing to fear. He looked down and took a small bite of cheese, glancing up through his lashes only once he'd chewed it.

“I don't think Master Torveld is much interested in women,” he teased, and let himself smile.

“Oh, don't be silly,” Charis giggled, “I don't mean I want your master, just....someone like him.”

“He's told me he means to keep everyone here in the palace if he can,” Erasmus mused, “Maybe you'll catch someone's eye.”

“Wouldn't that be wonderful?” Charis sighed dreamily.

“Don't be stupid,” Astacos spoke for the first time, eyes open in a sour glare, “You're not cut out to be a personal slave, not like Erasmus. He was made for princes.”

Charis looked at him as if he'd struck her, and Erasmus could feel the same expression on his own face. He reached out and took Charis' hand. She looked down, then at Erasmus' face, with watery eyes. When he squeezed her hand, she squeezed back.

“Patras is a new place,” Erasmus heard himself saying, “I think we can all have new chances. King Torgeir has eight children, half of them already old enough to keep slaves. Why can't we all find someone?”

“You said to stay hopeful about Vere, too,” Astacos retorted coldly.

“Hope doesn't hurt anyone, Astacos,” Narsis placated, “And there's no reason to be unkind.”

“Hope hurts plenty enough,” Astacos seethed, and then stood up and walked away into a corner.

Erasmus fiddled with his half-eaten piece of cheese as he watched Astacos leave. His thigh ached distantly. He put down the cheese and pressed his palm down on the burn, through his tunic; sometimes if he reminded himself it was healed, the phantom ache went away. Charis was wiping her eyes. Narsis sighed softly before turning away from where Astacos now sat, alone and sulking.

“We really might stay here?” he asked, leaning forward a bit, “I'll admit, I'd rather not be sent away somewhere new again.”

“Master Torveld said he would try to keep us together,” Erasmus affirmed with a nod.

“I hope he succeeds. It's better if we're all together supporting each other, especially after everything. And, anyway, I'd miss you,” Narsis smiled, and he looked so sincere Erasmus felt like crying.

He smiled back instead, and took Narsis' hand in his so he was holding both his friends, and gently squeezed each of their hands. Charis laughed in a wobbling voice and pulled her hand away only to throw her arms around Erasmus and Narsis and tug them both close. The three of them toppled over and landed slanted against the wall behind Narsis. Erasmus sputtered out a tiny laugh, and it grew and grew and mixed with Charis', and Narsis' voice joined them as he slid his arms around them.

When finally they were too breathless to laugh anymore, they slowly untangled from each other. Erasmus wiped his eyes dry of laughing tears. Narsis huffed out a tired breath of air, grinning outward at the room around them. Charis was still giggling as she straightened her silks and hair. When Erasmus looked up, he found the others – Akielon slaves and Patran servants – smiling at the three of them. Two dozen fond, wistful faces. There was hope in their eyes, tentative and frail, but it was there again after so long.

Erasmus' heart swelled with warmth. It felt different, but just as sweet, as the warmth that filled him when Master Torveld smiled, or held him, or kissed him so softly. He thought of months, years spent here in Bazal: his master's embrace in the morning, his friends' laughter throughout the day as they worked and shared meals, playing the kithara for them as they danced at banquets and watching his master smile contentedly at the entertainment, Dagil's gentle advice and Korin's teasing. A whole future stretched out before him, new and bright and yet familiar in a way that comforted him.

“So,” Charis' voice cut into his rosy thoughts, “You rode on a horse. What other adventures have you and your new master had this past month?”

Erasmus laughed softly. He fixed himself a large piece of bread with creamy cheese spread over it, then met Charis' eyes and tilted his head with a curious look. She grinned back at him. Narsis was grinning, too, still, clearly listening even though he kept his eyes on the room at large.

“You'll have to help me choose where to start. There's so much to tell you.”

___________

It was hours later when the banquet began, but it felt like barely a moment. After hearing everything there was to share about Master Torveld, Charis and Narsis filled Erasmus in on their own experiences from the past month. He was glad to learn Korin was just as lively and loyal around them as he had seemed to Erasmus. He was even more glad to see his friends and fellows in good spirits; he had not seen so many smiles among the 24 Akielon slaves in all the time they had been together as the consignment to Vere. The hours passed quickly in storytelling, feasting, and painting faces.

Now he looked around at his fellows as they waited assembled in the hall to be called into the greatroom. The smiles were tighter, nervous and eager, and though they held themselves still, Erasmus could feel in them the same buzzing need to fidget that he was suppressing. Finally, the door opened and they were ushered inside by a tall Patran guard in ceremonial armor. Erasmus stayed a pace farther than necessary from him as he led them toward the raised dais at the front of the room. Upon it, the King and Queen sat on thrones of carved wood, their children standing nobly around them. And before the dais, facing both the thrones and the gathered audience sitting at their low tables, stood his master in grand robes. He had not worn such finery since the night in Vere when Erasmus first saw him.

“As a token of good faith and continued friendship, the Regent of Vere has sent to Patras these fine slaves – trained in the art of service in Ios itself, which attests to their quality as much as does the beauty which Your Majesties can surely see.”

The eyes of the room were on Erasmus and the other slaves, and for a moment he could feel the tension of being watched in all their bodies. A slave was meant to blend into the decoration, and Erasmus, like his fellows, was on edge to be so directly displayed. But they would manage, because their masters willed it. And so, with two dozen quick and steadying breaths, they all bent slowly into the lowest prostration with all the grace years of training could provide. And they held it, while the gathered audience and the royal family looked on with murmured appreciation.

“Truly, it is an amazing display,” the King spoke, his voice ringing out clear and true just as it had in the courtyard that morning, “We extend our thanks to our brother for bringing these slaves safely to us, and offer to Vere as well our thanks and heartfelt good will.”

“As your humble servant, I will transmit your words of friendship.”

Erasmus heard footsteps moving closer, though he didn't dare lift his head yet. Master Torveld must have moved off to the side, his part in the ceremony finished. The creak of old wood from the dais and the clink of goblets raising all around the room signaled a toast.

“Now let us feast the happy return of our brother Torveld, and the fortuitous news of continued bonds with Vere,” the King's great voice rang out, “To our great delight, the slaves entrusted to us by Vere will perform an Akielon legend to accompany the feast. We pray our honored guests enjoy the fresh entertainments.”

A clang of goblets striking each other, and a pause as everyone drank their toast, before the King resumed his seat with another soft creak of wood. The room began to fill with voices, idle conversation while the guests awaited food and entertainment. Erasmus heard the command to rise in an unfamiliar voice – the guard, perhaps – and lifted himself with careful elegance to stand. Around him, Narsis, Charis, and the others were casting their eyes about in search of instruction. Should they begin the performance immediately, or wait until the food was distributed? In the anteroom, Narsis had confessed with worry that the Patran servants, though kind, had offered only vague instructions about their role for the night.

“Well, go on,” the guard urged the group of slaves, looking a bit put out as he gestured at the open space in front of the dais.

Erasmus saw the relief in his fellows' eyes as their path became clear. As a group, they moved toward the open space, and Erasmus moved with them on instinct. The guard grunted and stepped forward to grasp him by the arm.

“Not you.”

Erasmus felt the edge of panic rising in his chest as he turned with his head bowed to face the guard. But the hand dropped quickly off his arm, and the guard gave only a curt nod before returning to his post. Erasmus stood where he'd been left, breathing slowly, and glanced uncertainly over his shoulder at the other slaves already settling into the starting pose of the dance for the Flight of Jennara. Only when a deep, rich voice called his name from the low table at the front of the audience did he remember. He was to sit at his master's side for the banquet; of course he would not be joining in the dance.

Without trying to hide his smile, Erasmus drifted with hurried grace toward where Master Torveld was reclining on a cushion at the corner of the front table. His robes fell in neat lines over his broad shoulders and sturdy body; they were cut to flatter and enhance his naturally handsome figure. His hair was brushed back, his beard neatly trimmed, all the weariness and dust of long travel washed away from his face. His smile, refreshed and languid, made Erasmus' heart stutter. He beckoned Erasmus to sit, and Erasmus folded artfully to his knees at his master's right side. Without looking away from that golden smile, he knew the others seated at the table were impressed with his form. He was glad to reflect well on his master's pride.

“The grace of Ios' slaves is not exaggerated,” said a young man seated across the table.

Erasmus recognized him as one of the group who had stood on the dais behind the thrones. He had the Queen's eyes, sparkling with unabashed appreciation as he looked at Erasmus. The cut of his jaw was strong like Master Torveld's, and his beard, trimmed close, was the same dark brown, though the tumble of hair that fell around his face was tinged auburn. The Queen, too, had dark red hair, Erasmus recalled, vibrant tresses pulled up and styled under her crown. This must be Toros, of whom Master Torveld had spoken proudly; the other royal sons would not have been old enough to grow a beard. Erasmus glanced at his master, who seemed content to smile rather than answer his nephew.

“Your Highness flatters this unworthy slave beyond measure,” Erasmus spoke with appropriate reverence, dipping his head and lowering his eyes, “May your praise please his master's honor well.”

“Well,” Prince Toros laughed, sounding pleased, “Such pretty words from a pretty boy. I'm hoping for that post as ambassador more each passing moment.”

“That is no way to convince Father to give you the post,” said a woman just to Master Torveld's left.

Her hair was even more auburn than Prince Toros', a perfect match to the Queen's. She wore it pinned back from her face, sensible but elegant as it draped past the back of her jaw and fell to just below her shoulders. Her face was soft, bone structure delicate and skin still glowing with the last of youth, but the sharpness of her green eyes almost disguised this. They were fixed on Prince Toros and full of a teasing exasperation. The woman arched her eyebrows, prompting him to answer. Surely Toranna, the eldest child. 

“Obviously I won't mention that when I petition him,” Prince Toros laughed, eyes crinkling with the force of his smile.

“Obviously,” Princess Toranna replied with a more subdued smile.

“Oh, but forget petitions and diplomacy for a bare moment, you two,” a second woman cut in, her voice a playful whine, “The topic was Uncle Torveld's gorgeous new slave, wasn't it?”

This second woman, cheeks in the full flush of new adulthood, had all the features of her father; her dark hair, worn loose and free, fell in tight curls as low as her waist and framed the angular lines of her face to great advantage. Eyes bright and cheerful, she was grinning as she waved her hands to capture the others' attention, even as they were already turning to look at her. Princess Toranna rolled her eyes but looked nothing less than fond, while Prince Toros laughed again in good humor. Erasmus felt his master's posture straighten, limbs held tighter, and wondered why. Had there been something to upset him in his nieces and nephew amiably conversing? It seemed to Erasmus the picture of familial bliss.

“It would do you well to forget idle fancy for a bare moment, Torfina,” Princess Toranna admonished, voice light and expression gentle.

“We cannot all be so serious, dear sister,” Princess Torfina retorted, pouting with lips coated in light pink paint, “Freshly loosed from long-planned bonds, my eyes can't help but wander. And, just look at him!”

She gestured at Erasmus with emphatic flourish, raising her eyebrows in expectation of, probably, resounding agreement. Erasmus flushed and allowed himself a shy smile, but did not otherwise react. Master Torveld took a long, rather sudden, drink of his wine; it did nothing to loosen the tension in his shoulders.

“It can't be denied our uncle is a man of superior taste,” Prince Toros agreed, with feigned reluctance, to his sister's assertion.

“Exactly,” Princess Torfina grinned, and clapped her hands together in triumph, “The boy is a jewel among jewels. All the Akielon slaves were beautiful, of course, but this one! He's like a work of art, and such exotic coloring, too. And of course, Ios' famed training shows that off to wonderful advantage. I can see why you've chosen him out for yourself, uncle.”

Prince Toros nodded along as his sister spoke, and even Princess Toranna gave a soft smile of agreement by the end. Erasmus flushed even deeper. He knew he deserved no praise for his beauty alone, and he tried not to be too pleased at the princess' flattery. But he expected his master to be well pleased by it, as any man with a prize worth showing off; he had done his best to be graceful, to sit prettily, to be worth displaying, for his master's sake. He glanced up with hopes of catching Master Torveld's beautiful smile before the man accepted his niece's praise. But Master Torveld's lips were drawn together, thin and just as tense as the rest of him.

“I believe the dance is starting,” Master Torveld said.

True enough, the first notes of the kithara hummed through the air not a moment later. Princess Torfina blinked and tilted her head, surely caught off guard by her uncle's abrupt and – if Erasmus was being honest, though he was loathe to speak ill of his master – curt subject change. Prince Toros, too, was frowning slightly in confusion. Princess Toranna covered whatever expression she wore with a well-placed sip of her wine.

“Erasmus,” Master Torveld continued, articulating each syllable of the name with unnecessary care, “This legend is well-loved by your people, is it not? I'm not sure I remember the story well. Can you explain it, as we watch the others dance, my dear?”

Erasmus floundered, just for a moment. Master Torveld wanted him to narrate the dance? He could not think why that should be his master's preference, over conversation with the family he had not seen in over two months. But it was not his place to question his master's wishes. So, with a quick bow that was not really as artful as it ought have been, he began to recite the legend of Jennara in Akielon. He had never been taught the Patran translation for it. Princess Torfina's mouth twisted sourly, then relaxed into reluctant curiosity as Erasmus wrapped up the first verse. He paused to check he was in time with the music and then continued through the second, and the third, and Jennara came upon the first new beginning that would change her fate.

“...a lovely way to get more familiar with Akielon culture,” Prince Toros said at length,“Well thought, uncle.”

“Truly an ambassador at heart,” Princess Toranna agreed, but her tone spoke of some hidden meaning, held back in the name of politeness, perhaps.

“It is only that I enjoy Erasmus' storytelling,” Master Torveld said quietly, “He is quite talented.”

Erasmus carried on with his oration, lowering his voice when needed to let their words carry to each other. The mood was slow in returning to its original cheerfulness. Princess Torfina picked at her food listlessly for the better half of the dance, while Prince Toros attempted to look intent on the tale as Erasmus spoke, and Princess Toranna watched the other slaves performing. Erasmus could not tell if she was listening to his oration or not. Master Torveld certainly was; his eyes barely left Erasmus, though he ate steadily. Erasmus kept his eyes lowered and let his expressions follow the mood of the tale from uncertainty to wonderment, though he could feel the flustered thumping of his heart even to his fingertips. Further down the table, younger nieces and nephews chatted amongst themselves and cast occasional glances at Erasmus or the dancers. The youngest, still only children, bickered over the best morsels of meat and struggled not to look bored.

At long last, as the tale approached its end and the music built toward a crescendo, the mood lifted. Prince Toros and Master Torveld struck up a conversation about hunting and the inferior quality of Veretian horses. Princess Toranna drew her sister out of sourness with questions about charming noblemen whose names Erasmus barely recalled from his master's explanations of the court. The children and their closest agemates started a game of riddles, and the middle daughter seemed to be chatting merrily with a noble girl of similar age. The dance finished. Erasmus hurried through the last of his oration with relief. The other slaves dispersed and began to circulate the room, helping the Patran servants distribute the sweets and refill the wine. Erasmus set about choosing the best pieces from the new trays to offer Master Torveld. For some time, he carried on in silence, content to let Master Torveld join in the merriment.

“Delicious,” his master murmured after taking a bite of a particular Patran berry confection he held up.

Master Torveld's teeth had split the confection open, and sweet red juice spilled onto Erasmus' fingertips. Master Torveld smiled, eyes warm, and shifted closer to Erasmus. He took the second bite slowly, tongue darting out to lick clean Erasmus' skin as the confection lifted free of his fingers. Erasmus flushed from his cheeks all the way down into his shoulders, and the heat of it continued to travel lower. It left a pleasant ache in his chest and his belly. He felt a sudden, urgent desire to kiss Master Torveld on those lips that were still dyed red with berries.

“I am so glad to have you with me,” Master Torveld whispered into the heady air between them, and Erasmus exhaled sharp and wanting.

For just a moment, the great hall and the buzz of merriment disappeared, as Master Torveld leaned down and kissed Erasmus. He left a honeyed tartness on Erasmus' lips when he pulled back. Against all he knew to be proper, Erasmus wanted to ask for a second kiss. But someone was clearing their throat behind Erasmus, and Master Torveld was looking up with a smile that was more placating than abashed.

“I thought your habit was to finish the sweets before mingling with your guests, brother.”

“Lillian brought to my attention the scandalous display at the head table, and I found a break in habit necessary.”

Erasmus turned with unobtrusive haste to face the table, not wishing to cause the King anymore ire. He should have been more careful not to lure his master to unseemly behavior; he had forgotten himself, and where they were. Master Torveld, for his part, laughed softly and sat up straighter, away from Erasmus.

“Perhaps I got carried away. My apologies for bringing private passions to a public space,” he said, but his tone was light and full of happiness rather than contrition.

“Lovesick, indeed,” the King muttered, powerful voice subdued to keep others at the table from hearing, “Even Toros in his first flush of infatuation was not so obvious.”

“I beg to differ,” Master Torveld replied, and sipped his wine.

“The clothier prepared 24 sets of slave silks in the Akielon style, and yet I see only 23 have been put to use.”

Master Torveld let his sip stretch out into a long draught. Erasmus looked down at himself in his cream-and-green Patran tunic, which he had found so pleasing. Careful not to move his head, he looked through his bangs at his fellows slaves scattered around the room. He had noticed their new silks, fresh and beautiful, as a a happy sign of gentle treatment. And they all did look healthy, unafraid, as they served sweets and wine or knelt at the request of various nobles to receive compliments or admiring touches. Erasmus saw, at the far side of the room, Charis glowing under the attention of a smiling couple. None of them had mentioned his clothes, and he had not even noticed himself how differently he was dressed. So much more of his skin was covered, and he matched more closely with the Patran servants than the Akielon slaves, though the fabric of his tunic was finer than either group. And he had not danced. He was not serving the banquet, not even the table, but only Master Torveld.

“I wished him to be comfortable,” his master's voice cut in to his thoughts, along with the soft thunk of a goblet being finally set down.

“And not at all to be set apart from the others?” the King asked, somewhere between incredulous and accusing.

“And what is wrong with wanting to make clear my claim?” Master Torveld answered, his tone sour on the words in a way that Erasmus did not understand.

“Nothing,” the King sighed, paused as if wanting to say more, and finally just shook his head.

After the King turned and walked away, beginning a circuit of the room that would take him the rest of the night, Master Torveld did not speak of his comment or of Erasmus' clothes. He nudged Erasmus closer to him and accepted small bites of sweets while talking merrily with his nieces and nephews. Erasmus pushed the conversation from his mind to focus on choosing sweets and serving without calling attention to himself.

Yet he felt, even as his master appeared steadfastly focused on his conversations, that the man's attention was split. Each brush of his lips on Erasmus' fingers, each tiny shift of position on his cushion that brought their bodies closer together, sent a spark of anticipation and longing through Erasmus. By the time the sweets ran low and the conversation dwindled, he was thrumming with it, and he could feel his master's impatience in the twitch of his fingers and the tightening of his lips. When finally, finally, Master Torveld touched his shoulder in signal and rose from the cushion with warm farewells to the others, Erasmus felt ready to burst.

He followed Master Torveld's swift pace toward the door. They paused only so Master Torveld could tell Dagil, waiting at the edge of the room, he was dismissed for the night. Dagil nodded with his knowing smile and took the grand robes as Master Torveld draped them into his arms. They left the great hall in only their tunics. As soon as they were alone in the hall, Master Torveld took his hand and held it tight.

___________

Master Torveld's room was lit only by candles and moonlight, just as it had been on that first night more than a month ago in Vere. It seemed too perfect an echo to be accidental, Erasmus thought as he let his master draw him forward into the alcove of a window overlooking an inner garden. He wondered if the man had spoken to whoever prepared his room, maybe Dagil, and requested this atmosphere. He wondered, with a blush, if it had been for his sake.

But there was precious little time for musing. Master Torveld was pulling him closer, the bare space in the center of his chest brushing the fine silk of his master's tunic. He reminded himself to breathe, willed his heartbeat to slow; it fluttered deliriously as Master Torveld cupped his burning cheek and tilted his face up. It was only a kiss, he told himself, it was not even their first.

But those both were lies. This night was more than a kiss, and it was their First, his First.

“Listen to me, Erasmus,” Master Torveld whispered into the half-breath of space between their mouths, “I'm here with you. Listen.”

Erasmus attempted a nod that became more of a twitch than anything. He laid his hands on Master Torveld's chest, pressed his palms flat against the firmness of it. The man's heart beat fast – eager, excited – but steady. His voice was just as steady, murmuring low and even into the corner of his lips; Erasmus did not catch many of the words, but listened to the tempo and timbre of them. One warm hand ran up and down Erasmus' spine, its twin cradling his face, one thumb tracing over his cheekbone. Slowly, the trembling energy in his skin leeched outward and away. Without thinking, he closed the strip of space between them.

“That's it,” a breath of praise echoed in the smile that brushed against his mouth, and his heart was racing anew.

He parted his lips, opened to his master with a tiny smile of his own. Soft, dry lips moved into his, the very tip of a tongue swiped across his bottom lip, and then his mouth was full with the taste of spiced wine and mint. His body arched upward, an offering, an aching need. He was answered with a tight embrace, one hand pressing lightly at the back of his head to guide him into the deepening kiss. He whimpered empty syllables as his mouth fell open, breathing in courage through his nose.

“Erasmus,” his master's whisper spilled into his mouth, heavy and liquid, “My Erasmus...you are a gift more fine than I deserve.”

“This slave would see his master given every fine gift in all the world,” he answered, voice trembling with the exultant swell of his happiness.

It was not the answer he had been taught, not what he had practiced under his breath in the moonlit quiet of the dormitory every night of his training. But it pushed its way from him and trampled those overpracticed words underfoot; there was no other answer he could have given. And Master Torveld was grinning. He could feel it in the man's lips as they pressed, once more, gently into his own.

“And so I have been, with you in my arms,” he murmured.

Erasmus returned his master's smile in kind, and a hint of giddy laughter wisped out of him. It was wrong to believe himself anything special, but oh how he wanted to be special to this man that was everything to him, and oh how it pleased him to hear such words. He let himself believe them. If he didn't deserve them yet, at least he had time to become something worth praise.

There was a breeze coming in from the garden, and it grew cold as they kissed in the alcove, far from the candles lighting up the room further inside. Erasmus shivered as a particular flurry of air brushed over his bare skin. He pressed closer to Master Torveld, instinctively reaching toward the warmth of him. Master Torveld laced an arm around Erasmus' waist and stepped away from the window with him. Then he pulled away from the kiss, and Erasmus' eyes followed his face as it moved.

“Let's move in where it's warm, hm?” Master Torveld suggested, expression gentle but laced with something like apprehension.

He turned them both in toward the room. One arm dropped away from Erasmus and gestured outward. There was the bed, and there was a lounge chair with more than enough room for two, and there was a small table where he probably took his breakfast, and there was a desk and a collection of books behind it. Master Torveld took a step toward the bed. His arm at Erasmus' waist drew Erasmus forward with him. But as soon as they'd moved in far enough to escape the chill from outside, Master Torveld stopped. He leaned down and brushed his lips across Erasmus' cheek. Erasmus sighed out, soft and wanting.

“I promised you a bed, and a night of mutual pleasure,” he whispered, low and husky, “And I am eager to deliver on my word.”

Erasmus felt the flush on his cheeks travel down into his neck and shoulders, chasing the heat that pooled in his chest and between his legs. Vague, heady images flitted through his mind like the impressions made by previous fantasies. And behind them all, an enveloping possibility, at once frightening and promising.

“I will stop if you ask it of me,” Master Torveld breathed, “You need only ask. Now, or ever.”

Erasmus did not know what to say to this – a slave did not, could not, ask a master to stop; it was his duty to endure whatever his master needed of him – so he said nothing. Surely, Master Torveld only meant to reassure that he meant to be gentle with Erasmus. Surely, there would be no reason to stop him, even if Erasmus could have. Erasmus smiled up at him and banished this train of thought, returning to the pleasant embrace of sensual imaginings as he tilted up on his toes and offered himself for a kiss. Master Torveld obliged without hesitation. Erasmus' heart was soaring.

Each point of contact was a burst of heat: their chests pressed together, Master Torveld's strong hand gripping loose around his shoulder, its pair settled on his waist, and of course, of course, their lips meeting and parting and meeting again. They had shared many kisses already. He knew well the tender comfort of a kiss meant to soothe, and the slow-burning passion of a deep kiss that promised more but did not give it. But this was new; Erasmus had never been kissed like this before. He felt himself swallowed up in it, returning each caress of lips or tongue on instinct more than anything, breathless and burning.

Gentle arms drew him slowly forward as the kiss – kisses? - stretched on. He stuttered forward and barely noticed how clumsy his footsteps were as he tried to follow without interrupting the dizzy press of their lips. Somehow, probably through Master Torveld's grace rather than his own art, the two of them came to sit side by side at the edge of the great, elegant bed. Erasmus dared to shift himself closer, to lay his hands flat across Master Torveld's chest. He was rewarded with a soft, low laugh and the press of a hand on his lower back to pull him even closer.

“You are beautiful in Patran dress,” Master Torveld breathed into his lips, and pulled away just far enough that Erasmus could make out his wide dark pupils in the low light, “But what do you say we look at you out of it?”

Erasmus blinked slowly, and then as his master's meaning dawned on him, gave a nod and a shy smile. He shifted his posture and reached to unfasten the woven belt. He had done as much for Master Torveld two dozen times. Despite the low light and new angle he managed it easily now. But as he searched for a place to set it respectfully aside, his hands were encircled by his master's roughened palms. Master Torveld's fingers drew the belt away from him and dropped it casually on the floor, and then brushed his hands out of the way with just as little ceremony. He let his arms hang at his sides and watched with unmasked surprise as his master's hands came to rest on his knees and then traveled slowly inward to push his tunic up.

“Master Torveld,” Erasmus whispered, as the man's fingers skirted carefully around the burn marks on his thigh.

“Mm?”

“This slave can undress himself,” Erasmus continued, though his voice caught in his throat at the brush of fingertips across his hips and the raw appreciation in Master Torveld's expression as he looked at the body he was laying bare.

“I have no doubt,” his master answered, low and sultry, and there was a smile in his voice, and Erasmus thought perhaps he was teasing.

“Y-...you need not trouble yourself,” Erasmus tried a second time, though by now it was pointless. The tunic was bunched around his waist, and Master Torveld's fingers were pressing into the bare skin underneath.

“Trouble?” Master Torveld chuckled, and he lifted his eyes, and Erasmus stared at how they sparkled even though he knew he shouldn't.

Master Torveld pulled the tunic quickly up, and Erasmus managed to lift his arms in time, and the whole thing slipped off him and was on the floor before he'd brought his arms back down to his sides again. He could feel his hair was askew. Master Torveld reached forward and cupped his cheek.

“I wanted to do it,” he whispered, “I have been wanting to do it all evening.”

Erasmus thought he understood, as Master Torveld leaned forward and kissed him again, with even more passion than earlier. Callused hands ran over his heat-soaked skin. He heard himself moan, lips parted and brushing against Master Torveld's trimmed beard. He wondered, fingers twitching. He reached forward and quickly untied his master's belt, dropping it behind them on the bed, and began tentatively to draw Master Torveld's tunic up over well-muscled thighs. As his hands smoothed across the man's stocky waist, defined and firm in spite of the hints of age, he was gripped with a shock of yearning deep in his belly. He hesitated and fell back from the kiss, eyes drawn down to the body under his hands.

Master Torveld took the fine silk from his hands and finished pulling it off himself. He tilted Erasmus' face up and searched it. Erasmus fought down the urge to squirm in embarrassment and instead smiled weakly.

“You don't look afraid,” Master Torveld murmured, brows knitting.

“Ah,” Erasmus breathed, flushing deep red across his cheeks, “It's only....Master Torveld is very handsome. In every part.”

“Oh, is that all?” he laughed, and relief washed over his face before it melted into a confident satisfaction, “You are always welcome to gape at my beauty, dear Erasmus. But there are even more delightful things to do yet.”

Master Torveld drew Erasmus into his lap, cradling each of his hips in one large hand. His lips traveled over Erasmus' jaw and down the length of his neck, leaving behind wet heat and phantom pressure. His thighs, firm and powerful, pressed close against Erasmus' own open legs, and his broad chest brushed against Erasmus' ribs with each deep breath he took. It felt strange somehow to sit like this, his head above his master's, and for a moment Erasmus thought to apologize. But then Master Torveld's strong hands tugged him gently forward and pulled their bodies flush together, and the man's mouth found its way back to his own with a passionate hunger, and the heat and the closeness and the press of Master Torveld's hardening cock against his blotted out his worries.

He forgot himself for a time, his head hazy as if from a steam bath. Thought came slowly through a fog of pleasure, but his body was alight with sensation. Master Torveld's lips on his skin, over and over until he could no longer feel each kiss as discreet, but only a blur in the fog. Roughened hands ran gentle over his body, exploring, caressing, coming to know every inch of Erasmus. They were soft at his waist and over his thighs, slick heat as one grasped his cock and his master's together. He thought he might melt as it moved, steady pressure and slide, slowly up and down. He dropped his head down to his master's shoulder, and breathed out a gasp thick with need. His whole body was throbbing with it.

“So beautiful,” Master Torveld grunted softly.

He pressed one more kiss to the join of Erasmus' neck and jaw, where his pulse hummed like a drumbeat. Then he lifted his hips and turned them both until Erasmus lay under him on the bed. The thin space between their bodies was full of the heat of desire. Erasmus watched, eyes full of all the adoration spilling from his heart, as his master leaned down and softly kissed his lips. The man's hands trailed up his sides and came to rest, gentle but heavy, on his shoulders as the kiss deepened and he ground their hips together. Pinned. Rough bark and the stillness of an empty garden. A jolt ran down Erasmus' back like ice.

Erasmus tried to hold onto the thread of his passion, so carefully stoked by his generous master. But it was swiftly unraveling, each flash of memory tearing away another string. He closed his eyes. Master Torveld's gentle, callused hands twisted into the vice grip of the Veretian guard. He whimpered. The heavy scent of Master Torveld's body spiked with floral sweetness. It was only a breeze from the gardens, he told himself. He trembled, and his limbs twitched; he struggled to hold still. But it was too strong in his nose. His face was so hot. He couldn't breathe.

“P-please,” he gasped, “Can't...n-no...”

“Erasmus,” whispered a kind voice from very far away.

The pressure lifted away. The world around him shifted.

“Erasmus,” whispered the voice again, closer and firmer.

He dragged in a breath through lungs that felt like gravel. He was sitting, he realized. Another breath. He winced. The third breath came easier. He couldn't smell flowers anymore. But he was very cold. He blinked, slow and bleary. He was sitting, legs haphazardly splayed in front of him. Master Torveld was kneeling at his side. His eyes were full of concern; they seemed almost frantic.

“....I'm sorry,” Erasmus whispered, in plain Akielon unfit for even a free man addressing a Prince, let alone a slave addressing his master. He couldn't seem to grasp the proper words he ought to have used.

“It's me that ought to be apologizing,” Master Torveld whispered, and if he was shocked at Erasmus' break in decorum he didn't show it.

He was watching Erasmus' face. He held his body carefully apart; they weren't touching at all. Erasmus shifted closer toward the heat and comfort of the other man's body, and Master Torveld did not hesitate to lay both arms around him. But still, his grip was impossibly light. Erasmus closed his eyes tightly. He wanted to be held tighter, wanted to melt into his master's chest where it would feel safe, but he could not ask. He had already done too much.

“You....you don't have to stop,” he murmured, “Please, Master Torveld.”

“Erasmus,” his master shushed him, “Don't force yourself. I will not take you while you're shaking with fear. I will not do this if it causes you pain.”

A shock of hot tears rose up in Erasmus' eyes and spilled over his cold cheeks. His vision blurred with the force of them. He choked back a sob of helpless frustration. Master Torveld sighed, and the sound was soft and sad, and Erasmus hated it. He was so tired of being a weak and breakable thing. This was his new beginning, and he would not lose it.

“It's all right, Erasmus,” Master Torveld whispered, “You're safe. Come, we can sleep.”

He shifted as if to lay down, but Erasmus clung to him, and he fell still. Erasmus sniffed, wiped his eyes, took a quick breath. He gathered his courage and looked up at Master Torveld, holding eye contact.

“Please. Master Torveld, y-you are so handsome, and your touch is....” Erasmus entreated, pressing on even through embarrassment, “This slave has not known such pleasure before.”

His master's eyes widened, and the mouth set into a worried line twitched slightly up at the corner. He brushed his hand through Erasmus' hair. His brows furrowed with uncertainty.

“You truly want to continue?”

“Truly,” Erasmus breathed, and a swell of heat and hope rose through him.

“...I would not deny you what you desire,” Master Torveld murmured.

Erasmus could see the softening of his master's face, worry replaced with tentative calm, his lips smoothing into an affectionate smile, his eyes darkening again with desire. Slowly, he leaned forward, arms still loose around Erasmus, and Erasmus could feel the moment of hesitation that would have allowed him to pull away. Instead, he moved forward to meet Master Torveld and brought their lips together with more force than was really allowed, for a slave. But instead of a reprimand, he received a smile and a low moan. Master Torveld's arms tightened slightly around him. He steeled his mind for the moment he would be pushed down to the bed again; this time, he would not allow himself to fall apart.

So he was not prepared when his master shifted them to the side of the bed. Nor when his master drew their lips apart and slid away and down. He was not prepared to see his master kneeling in front of him, large hands resting on his thighs and warm smile tilted up at him. He was not prepared, and so he balked.

“M-m-master Torveld!” he squeaked, grabbing impertinently at the man's arms to pull him back upright, “W-what are you doing?”

Master Torveld only laughed, and the sound was as musical as always, but it did nothing to soothe Erasmus' fretted nerves. He took Erasmus' hands in his own and kissed each one of them in turn, then leaned upward to kiss Erasmus chastely on the mouth. Erasmus calmed, but was still uneasy.

“Is it not meant to be the opposite?” he asked, flushed and fidgeting, “A prince should not kneel to serve a slave...”

“A prince may do whatever he wishes,” Master Torveld replied, “And I wish to give pleasure to the beautiful young man in my bed.”

He leaned up again, his hands sliding forward to grip firmly at Erasmus' hips, and pressed tender kisses along the curve of Erasmus' neck. Erasmus whimpered inelegantly, his heart already racing and eager. Everything in his training told him this was not right; for a master to kneel, and a slave to selfishly take pleasure without giving any in return? His instructors from the gardens would faint. And yet...if it was Master Torveld's wish...

“I want to show you the pleasure you have brought me, Erasmus, my precious gift,” Master Torveld breathed into his skin, his words left behind in the trace of his kisses, “With my hand. With my mouth. With all of my body.”

Erasmus gasped out, soft and wanting, as his master's palm brushed across his belly and moved down to stroke the length between his legs. It was quick to stiffen in his hand, as eager as Erasmus' pounding heart. Master Torveld stretched up and nibbled at his earlobe. Erasmus shivered and moaned.

“Will you indulge me?” came his master's voice, rough and heavy with passion, barely a whisper in his ear, “My sweet Erasmus. Let me spoil you.”

Erasmus, mind swimming with tingling desire, decided the instructors from the gardens of Ios would have to make an exception. After all, how could he refuse his master, who was so fervent, and so kind? He leaned his head to the side and caught Master Torveld's lips. He couldn't be sure if the sounds he made into those lips were truly words or not, but his master caught their meaning all the same. His hand gripped more firmly, thumb tracing the tender flesh just below the head, and Erasmus' next sounds were definitely not words at all.

Master Torveld swallowed each of Erasmus' helpless moans as he drew them from the young man. Their mouths parted only to gasp in tiny breaths of air. Erasmus had the distinct impression he was floating; all around him was warm and vague, like the still water of a bathing pool. The only point of sharp focus was the aching flesh in his master's hand, bright and yearning.

“That's it,” Master Torveld murmured into his mouth, “So sweet. My perfect, beautiful Erasmus.”

He shifted down and settled low on his knees again. Erasmus' breath caught, even the second time, to see him so. His body and its strong lines looked no less powerful. The presence he carried, his royal manner, was all still there. He was beautiful.

“Every night,” Erasmus murmured, “This slave dreamed to have a master like you.”

“You honor me with such kind words,” Master Torveld answered, and there was something raw and open beneath the light tone and his easy smile.

For a moment, they simply looked at each other. For a moment, Erasmus forgot to feel shy under his gaze, forgot to avert his eyes in respect to his master. For a moment, there was only the emotion in each of their hearts straining between them.

Master Torveld tucked his head down and mouthed at the arch of Erasmus' hip, soft and then insistent. Erasmus shuddered and stifled a cry by turning his face into his shoulder. Through the fall of his curled bangs, he watched his master move slowly down from his hip to his thigh. The man trailed wet kisses over the pale skin, his beard tickling at the gooseflesh rising all across Erasmus' thighs. When he came to the scars, mottled pink and pitted like undercooked meat beaten too thin, he paused. Erasmus twitched. Master Torveld moved with almost ceremonial deliberation and pressed unhurried, tender kisses on every inch of the scars. Erasmus was shivering as he finished, vision wobbling with restrained tears. He drew in a shaking breath and released it like a prayer. Master Torveld gave his thigh a gentle squeeze, raised his eyes to meet Erasmus' for just an instant. Then he kissed his way back up the other thigh, wet and open again. Erasmus bit his lip around a soft moan.

Master Torveld seemed to move slower the closer he came to Erasmus' straining erection; it was difficult not to plead, not to buck his hips to show his want. Just as he felt a whine rise in his throat, his master's head lifted, and he was enveloped in the wet heat of the man's mouth. The whine burst from him changed into a strangled moan. Master Torveld sucked gently at the head of his cock, teasing and soft, until he could not help but squirm. And then finally, wonderfully, Master Torveld dropped his head down and took all of Erasmus' length into his mouth. Erasmus felt his head drop back, sweat-damp curls clinging to his forehead, and his whole body followed it. He threw his arms back to hold himself upright.

Palace slaves were trained in this, by proxy, late into their instruction, so Erasmus had not yet learned how to drive a man to pieces with his tongue and throat. He wondered, through the build of pulsing delirium, where Master Torveld had learned such a skill. The hobbies of princes must truly be varied. His master's mouth was an enveloping heat around his length, the tight press of his throat and the slippery pressure of his tongue on Erasmus' sensitive skin was intoxicating.

He heard his own voice as if from a distance, his moans and helpless cries, while his mind spiraled through a heady fog. The sound became sharper, tinged with breathless desperation, as he felt a rush of sensation like a strong wind, emptying his lungs and leaving him dizzy and refreshed in its wake. The fog gave way to a thousand tiny sparks of pleasure, like stars twinkling in his twitching skin. His arms trembled at his sides just as badly as they ever had after a day of practicing the forms. He wanted to run and dance, he wanted to lay out across the bed and drift asleep...he wanted to feel that again.

“That was your first?”

Erasmus pushed up on his trembling arms and tilted his head forward again, muscles and smile equally languid. Master Torveld was rising to stand and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes alight. For a moment, Erasmus could only watch him, mind caught on the shadows that played over his muscles as he moved. But gradually he drew himself back to his master's question. And then sunk into confusion. He turned with a soft, abashed laugh to face Master Torveld as the man sat down beside him on the bed.

“First...?” he echoed, “Master Torveld has not yet...”

He flushed and gestured vaguely, praying Master Torveld would catch his meaning. To his relief, Master Torveld nodded and chuckled gently. He moved closer and put his arm around Erasmus' waist, brushing the other across Erasmus' cheek to clear away a few stray locks of hair clinging to his skin. Erasmus smiled, uncertain, and leaned into each touch.

“Yes, that is yet to come,” he murmured, “I mean to say, this was your first time reaching the peak of your pleasure.”

“Oh,” Erasmus breathed out, and thought back to the feeling, the sudden rush and the relief that had followed, “...oh.”

Erasmus looked down to see in his own body the telltale signs of release he had been taught to look for in a master. With a deepening flush, he realized what Master Torveld had been wiping off his lips. He had never been taught how it would be to feel a climax, but had only heard rumors and whispers of it from other slaves. And of course, he had wondered, imagined to himself, together with his fantasies of what his future master would be, what he would like Erasmus to do. He found his dreams far outdone by reality. Even bare moments after this first, he felt his body aching for a second, dissipated pleasure moving together again to strain toward another release.

“Thank you,” he said, and boldly leaned up to press a kiss to his master's lips, “Please, let this slave bring you the same delight, Master Torveld.”

Master Torveld laughed warmly. His face was split into a beaming smile when Erasmus pulled away to see it. Erasmus felt himself return the smile; his heart was fit to burst from the joy of causing that beautiful smile. Master Torveld drew him close into another kiss, this one long and heated. His hands roamed over Erasmus' body slowly. Everywhere they touched the ache in Erasmus' skin grew deeper. He slid in closer to the sturdy bulk of Master Torveld's body, felt the man's arousal firm and hot against his hip. Before, his pleasure had been diffuse and thick, a fog that blurred his mind; now, everything tilted urgent, sharp. His heart pounded in him, a searing, yearning beat.

Erasmus felt himself pulled forward, even as Master Torveld's body tilted away from him. His master brought them nearer the center and laid back on the bed. Erasmus made to follow, but gentle hands spread across his chest and held him still.

“Master Torveld...?”

“I want to watch you,” Master Torveld answered, his voice soothing and tinged with desire, “Show me your pleasure, Erasmus. Teach me what you like.”

Erasmus could not be sure if it was embarrassment or longing that set his chest burning, but the thrum of heat in his veins felt more like longing. He turned his eyes away from Master Torveld's calm smile and considered the man's body stretched out before him. Slowly, hands braced on his master's chest, he climbed across his hips and settled gingerly down to sit. Master Torveld brought his hands up to rest lightly on Erasmus' thighs.

Erasmus looked down at his legs parted around the width of Master Torveld's body. They had not been splayed so lewdly open since....a phantom kick, heavy boots against his shins, and again ice settled into his spine. He leaned forward, body heavy on his arms, head heavy on his neck. A slow breath with panic licking at its edges; he squeezed his legs tight against the body under him. It was gentle and still, brown skin set in relief to his own. The bedsheets were soft on his knees. The air was crisp and smelled of sex, and not of flowers. It was Master Torveld with him, good and kind and gentle, and he was not pinned down.

Master Torveld's hands slid off Erasmus' thighs and over his own chest to rest, heavy, on top of Erasmus' hands. He squeezed, just lightly, and murmured Erasmus' name in a voice full of affection. Erasmus smiled. He leaned down further and kissed each of the hands lying atop his own, then stretched forward and kissed Master Torveld on the lips. He lingered, indulged in the feeling of Master Torveld's mouth on his, the wet and heat of their entwined tongues; his master moaned, low and wanting, and he echoed the sound from deep in his own throat.

As he sat back up, Master Torveld's stiff length brushed against him from behind. He gasped, and so did his master, and the building ache in his veins turned keenly in toward his cock. So recently sated, it was already growing hard again. With a flush of passion, Erasmus rocked his hips, felt his master's stiffness brush more firmly against him, and delighted in a second stab of pleasure between his legs. Master Torveld's hands returned to his thighs, squeezing as if seeking support through a fumbled step. Erasmus glanced up to see his master's eyes clouded with desire, mouth parted and noble cheeks tinted the deep red of the berries Erasmus had fed him at the banquet. He shivered, from the back of his neck through his shoulders, to know that expression was his own doing.

Erasmus raised his hips and shifted backward, and had to arch his back to reach one hand behind himself and grasp Master Torveld's erect length. It twitched, hot and pulsing in his palm. His other hand lifted until only his fingertips were touching Master Torveld; his thighs trembled once, and adjusted to bearing his weight at the new angle. Master Torveld's hands traveled slowly, soothingly, up Erasmus' thighs. Erasmus lowered himself with careful breaths until the tip of Master Torveld's cock brushed at his entrance, and abruptly froze. A flash of terrible, tearing pressure, the ache of being pried open and used cruelly, an uncaring laugh and guttural moans over his own muffled sobs, bark scratching at his skin.

“Erasmus...?”

“I....” he tried, eyes squeezed shut, heart quivering.

“It's me here, Erasmus. It's Torveld.”

He nodded, dragged in a breath past the wild quaking heartbeat, and opened his eyes. Master Torveld was watching him, brows knit and eyes full of concern, fighting sharply through the cloud of passion. Erasmus took another breath. The bedsheets were soft on his knees. He was not pinned down. His master wanted him. And he wanted this. 

“Do you need to stop?”

“No.”

It came out barely a breath on the air. Erasmus did not wait to wonder if his master had heard him. He let his thighs go loose and sunk, slowly, down onto Master Torveld's cock. He had readied himself with oil in the bath, but even still, it slid in so smoothly it surprised him. His body seemed almost to pull it in like a whirlpool pulling water, hungry and wanting. There was no pain, not as it entered him and not in his heart. As he seated himself fully, skin pressed close against Master Torveld's thighs, he let out a sigh that was almost a moan, and blinked away tears of relief.

“Feels good,” he whispered.

“Yes,” Master Torveld answered, voice thready and breathless and thick with desire.

Erasmus rolled his hips in minute circles as he adjusted to the new fullness. He felt his body stretch to accommodate Master Torveld at every small change of angle. Still there was no pain, only a blooming pleasure, a slow trickle up his spine, and then - as one particular shift dragged Master Torveld's shaft along a sensitive spot inside him – a rush of feeling like his earlier release, but weaker. A soft, surprised cry stuttered out of him. Master Torveld's hand lifted and he bent toward it, let it run across his face and hold his cheek.

“That's perfect, Erasmus,” his master spoke softly as his hand drifted lower, thumb grazing across Erasmus' lips, “You look so beautiful. You feel so good.”

Erasmus parted his lips; he wanted to feel his master's touch across more of his skin. Master Torveld smiled and gently pressed his thumb between them, caressing Erasmus' tongue and back across his lips, leaving a wet trail like fresh red paint. Erasmus shivered through his shoulders again, and down his spine into the deepest part of him. He felt hot all over, his face full of blistering warmth under Master Torveld's gaze, and was not afraid. He braced both hands low on his master's belly, and lifted himself up, and let himself slide back down again. His body opened itself in welcome, and his master, inside him, touched that spot again, and his voice cracked on the moan that passed his lips and floated down across Master Torveld's fingers.

It took time to find a rhythm to the lift and fall as he moved atop Master Torveld. His muscles were unused to the rolling motion. His thighs, several months out of practice at dancing, shuddered under the strain. But Erasmus would not have stopped for the world; it was everything he had dreamed, and twice lost. It was better than he had dreamed, closer, more visceral, the pulsing heat between their bodies, the sparks dancing in his skin wherever Master Torveld touched, the stretch and weight of Master Torveld inside him, and moving out of him, and inside him again. He belonged here, just like this, he belonged to this man and now, now after this, no one could deny it. He gasped out Master Torveld's name, body shaking and heart soaring and mind reeling in his pleasure.

Faster, and faster, chasing the building heat low in his belly, tremors shooting up and down his back. Master Torveld's moans, low and stuttering, echoed in his ears and off the walls. In snatches, he saw his master's gasping mouth and berry-red cheeks, the candles burning low on the mantle, his trembling hands splayed across his master's strong chest, shafts of moonlight catching on his master's hand gripped tightly around his thigh. The air was thin in his lungs; he was panting, around the broken moans spilling from him. He felt himself climbing toward the peak as he hadn't before, able now he had traveled it once to see the path ahead. He stumbled in his lift, fell too soon with a slick moan. His arms were shuddering, his thighs ached. Master Torveld had the eyes of a man five goblets too far into his wine, and still they were fixed on Erasmus' face. Erasmus rallied his strength, rocked faster, raced the pleasure, the delirium, that was mounting in him. Finally, he felt himself stagger to a precipice, and his master's voice rang out in a ragged desperate moan like falling, and Erasmus dove across the edge, and regretted nothing.

Erasmus came back to himself cradled in strong arms. He was lying on Master Torveld's chest, legs still straddling the man's hips, Master Torveld's softening length still buried inside him. The air was thick with the scent of them both. Erasmus felt tired and liquid all through his body, limbs heavy just as they had been in the bath. He tucked his face in to his master's chest and breathed in deep. Master Torveld stirred, pressed his lips to Erasmus' temple.

“How do you feel, dear one?”

“Wonderful,” Erasmus whispered, and found his voice hoarse.

“Are you ready to move? We'll be warmer under the blankets.”

Erasmus nodded, hair wisping over Master Torveld's skin with the sleepy motion. He lifted himself, with his master's help, and delicately climbed off of Master Torveld. He landed with a soft thump and a tired whimper on the bed beside the man. Master Torveld sat up and slowly made his way to stand beside the bed. Erasmus watched him as he turned down the bedcovers. He rolled and crawled out of the way as best he could, adjusting to the wet and empty feeling in the space no longer filled with Master Torveld. In the back of his mind, he knew he should be the one to prepare the bed for them, that it was improper for a slave to make a prince do such work. He mumbled an apology into his arm as he lay watching, and Master Torveld waved it away with a chuckle.

“It's nothing, my dear. You are clearly too well spent for it.”

And with that, he bent forward and gently pulled Erasmus into his arms, one hooked under his knees and the other behind his shoulders. He lifted Erasmus into the space he'd cleared, then lay down beside him and pulled the blanket close over them both. Erasmus curled tighter into Master Torveld's side; by the time Master Torveld's arms settled back around him, he was asleep.

He opened his eyes once, in the gray light that came before sunrise. Master Torveld's chest rose and fell under his cheek with the steadiness of deep sleep. Where his body had felt liquid and heavy, it now was filled with the muted ache of previous strain. Master Torveld's skin was warm against his own, in the close space under the blanket that they shared. Erasmus smiled, and pressed a soft secret kiss to Master Torveld's chest, and closed his eyes again.

When next he opened them, the room was bright with late morning sun, and he was alone. The air smelled of honey and fresh bread. Erasmus pushed himself up to sit and let the blanket slide down to pool around his hips. He looked around, blinking in the bright light, until his eyes found the small table he had noticed the night before. On the table was a sumptuous breakfast, fruits and cheeses and bread and a water pitcher and what must have been a bowl of honey, well more than one person could need. But there was only one plate and one goblet set out in front of one of the table's two chairs.

Erasmus crawled to the edge of the bed, blanket trailing. His tunic from the banquet was folded on top of one of the pillows. He stood and let the blanket fall as he quickly slipped into it. The morning air was not cold, even away from the sun-soaked expanse of the bed, but he felt more at ease with it on. After stretching up from his toes to his fingertips, his rested muscles still sore but slowly awakening, he crossed to the table. There was a note sitting on the plate, ragged at the edges as if torn from the corner of a roll of parchment, Akielon words scrawled in elegant handwriting.

_I couldn't bear to wake you. Enjoy your breakfast and spend the morning as you wish. Dagil will check on you later._

Erasmus smiled and brushed his fingers across the note. He picked it up and folded it carefully, then tucked it inside his tunic, near his heart. Perhaps Charis or Narsis would also have a moment free; at the least, he could join them in their work and ask how well they had enjoyed their own first nights in Patras. Would there be time to have a bath between that and returning to meet Dagil? The bath could always wait until afternoon, as long as he was fresh by evening to greet Master Torveld with a kiss, ready to hear about his day. Erasmus sat down and began to fill his plate from all the plenty laid out before him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy giant chapter, Batman! (aka "tfw every single scene ends up being 4x as long as you thought it would woops")  
> Thanks again for waiting, I know it took a bit longer than expected! I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I did :) And many thanks to my lovely beta Mina (yourstargazing on Tumblr) for her help!  
> Anyway, this is the end of the first arc I have planned for the fic, yay!! We made it! A round of griva for everyone, on me~  
> I'll post the next chapter as soon as I'm able, and I'm looking forward to another two arcs with these two (and you guys!)
> 
> [p.s. I relied heavily on "Bloodstream" and "Shape of You" by Ed Sheeran while writing, so if you're looking for a soundtrack to the chapter... <3]  
> [p.p.s. I based the name in the Akielon legend off of Janus, the god of "beginnings, choices, and doorways," bc I'm a sucker for motif]


	8. The Unknown Path

After the festivities of their first night in Bazal, Torveld had left leisure behind to return to the duties of a prince and diplomat. He rose at dawn with Erasmus still curled into his arms; thought it pained him to leave the boy, he got up from bed and dressed in silence before leaving Erasmus a note and heading out for the day's work.

That morning he passed several hours discussing the Veretian problem with Torgeir before taking the midday meal with visiting nobility from the Vaskian border. He assuaged their concerns that hostility would resume in the absence of an official ambassador; he assured them further that they would only need to wait a short time before another ambassador was appointed. This meal completed, Torveld spent the afternoon catching up with all the official correspondence and record-keeping he had not had time for during their travel. That evening, he returned again to Torgeir's study to discuss strategy and politics until the shadows of twilight had become the thick dark of midnight. Erasmus had been asleep atop the coverlet with the note clutched in his hand when Torveld finally returned.

The next day was much the same: Torveld rose with the dawn, spent the morning in meetings about the new trade agreement with Vere, spent his midday meal fielding concerns about the stability of the treaty with Vask, spent the afternoon signing off on Dagil's requests for household materials and catching up with Lillian about the family matters he had missed, and spent the evening in a monotonous but necessary briefing with his advisors. Young Niallon spent the entire meeting staring into space smiling like a lovestruck fool; Torveld almost envied him the freedom to daydream while others worked.

When finally he returned to his rooms just after dinner and fell into bed with an exhausted sigh, Erasmus did not begrudge him the second night in a row of chaste cohabitation. Sweet as ever, he simply massaged the tension out of Torveld's muscles with expert hands and soothed the tension in his heart with Akielon lullabies hummed softly in his silk-smooth voice. The boy made no complaint when Torveld bid him to lay down and sleep after little more than a kiss shared between them. But Torveld had regretted his weariness. He enjoyed the quiet hours of early morning and did not mind rising at dawn, but the late nights on top of that sapped his energy all too quickly; if only he still had the endless stamina of his youth.

On the third morning, Torveld again rose early. But thankfully his morning was not booked full. From mid-morning he would be petitioning a visiting noble for troops, but until then he kept his own time. He decided to let Erasmus sleep, and rose alone to send for the stable master and royal tutor before settling down to see to his personal letters until the servants brought breakfast in. Perhaps tonight, after a late morning and the satisfaction of having settled Erasmus' lesson schedule, the day's work would not weigh so wearily on him. Torveld hoped fondly that on this night he would have the energy to indulge in a few passionate hours with Erasmus.

A noise from the bed drew his attention, and he looked over in time to catch Erasmus awakening. Watching the young man stretch as he rose from the bed, Torveld felt his whole body yearn to touch him. Erasmus reached for his tunic before he had even fully straightened to stand. His shoulders smoothed down once he'd slipped it on, as if freed from some pressure holding them stiff. He did not hurry as much to reach for his belt or sandals, instead glancing around the room and stretching again, slower and more languid. Lithe, dancer's muscles tightened and curved under his creamy skin. The loose curls of his hair fell away from his face as he arced his back, catching on the rich morning light and shimmering like gold. His eyes were closed. His full lips tilted upward in a small smile that looked, to Torveld, like contentment.

“Good morning, beautiful.”

Golden curls bounced across an arched cheek as Erasmus whipped his head around toward Torveld. His eyes snapped open and his back straightened rigidly. He stood, staring openly with widened eyes like a rabbit sensing danger, for one long moment, and then he dropped into a shallow prostration with a frantic sound that barely carried over to the desk where Torveld sat. His eyes lowered, and the smile vanished into a blank expression that seemed almost to be shaking around the edges. Torveld frowned.

“P-please accept this slave's deepest apologies for not realizing he was in the presence of his master...”

“Oh, Erasmus,” Torveld sighed, “You don't need to apologize.”

Erasmus did not answer, nor did he rise from where he was kneeling. Torveld wondered, briefly, if a reprimand might have somehow been more soothing. But there hardly seemed a use to letting Erasmus think he had failed when he hadn't; he was already too critical, too afraid of mistakes. Torveld's heart clenched to think of what cruel punishments the Veretians might have put Erasmus through for the slightest mistakes. He drew a breath and tried again.

“Erasmus, dear one, stand up and come here.”

Erasmus rose and moved to where Torveld sat without a sound. He did not look up as he lowered himself back to his knees beside Torveld; only Torveld reaching out to touch his face stopped him from lowering himself further into what must have been a posture of supplication. Torveld was surprised at how deeply the idea bothered him. Though Patras did not insist on as strict a system of prostration for its slaves as Akielos did, it would hardly have been the first time a slave bowed to the floor for Torveld's sake. He had always thought it a sign of admirable training, and submissive spirit. Yet merely imagining Erasmus bowed low and begging forgiveness turned his stomach. Torveld pressed his hand tighter against Erasmus' cheek.

“I did not mean to startle you,” he said softly.

“Master Torveld is not at fault,” Erasmus said, somewhere between a reassurance and a plea.

“You did nothing wrong, dear one.”

Torveld tilted Erasmus' face upward, but the young man kept his eyes lowered. Torveld released his cheek to brush a few curls back from the lovely face.

“I've left you to wake alone for two days, and I forgot, it seems, to warn you last night that this morning would be different,” he said, and then repeated in a firm tone, “You did nothing wrong.”

“Master Torveld is very kind,” Erasmus murmured, and his posture loosened, and the hint of a smile returned to his lips.

Torveld breathed a soft sigh of relief. The cold knot in his stomach loosened. He brushed his thumb over Erasmus' cheek, and finally the boy looked up to meet his eyes. The last of the twisting cold left Torveld's stomach, replaced with warmth like honeyed milk. Erasmus flushed and smiled wider, shy but clearly pleased.

“I am sorry to have started our morning off poorly,” Torveld chuckled, “Come, get up from there and sit with me.”

Gently, he pulled Erasmus to his feet and directed him to sit across his lap. Erasmus flushed a deeper pink and settled gingerly into his seat on Torveld's thighs, fingers twitching where they rested in his own lap. He glanced to the side at Torveld's face, as if searching for a hint of what to do next. Torveld chuckled again and looped one arm around Erasmus' waist, resting his hand just below the young man's sternum.

“You are so beautiful in the morning light.”

Torveld felt Erasmus' body tense under his hand before he realized Erasmus was leaning closer. His lips parted in surprise as Erasmus pressed a tender kiss onto them, and he could do nothing but return it. Even just awoken, he tasted like honey and mint; Torveld wondered idly how he managed it. But the greater part of his mind was occupied with the taste itself, and the soft lips that brushed across his own, and the dark gold curls that tipped across his forehead when he lifted his chin to deepen the kiss. His hands traveled of their own accord to grip Erasmus's waist, smooth cotton still cool from a night of disuse growing warm between Erasmus' skin and his own fingertips.

A flutter of sound, more than a breath but not yet a moan, trembled from Erasmus into the sliver of air between them. Torveld's body rippled with need. He pulled Erasmus closer against him and kissed with more vigor. When finally a proper moan – soft but high and clear as a bell – spilled from Erasmus' lips, he drew their lips apart and settled Erasmus back where he had been. His own lips were tingling and swollen, and Erasmus' mouth was a wet smear of color like crushed berries. Torveld grinned. When he looked up to catch Erasmus' eyes, they were watching him, hazy and dark around widened pupils, from above cheeks mottled with a deep red flush. Erasmus smiled at him, a flash of nervousness in those wide brown eyes, but he did not look away. Torveld grinned wider still.

“Did you enjoy that?” he asked.

“Of course, yes,” Erasmus whispered in the reverent way he had, “Master Torveld is very good at kissing.”

“Am I now?” Torveld chuckled, and allowed himself a moment to bask in the compliment before he pressed, “Or are you just flattering the pride of an old man?”

Erasmus shook his head, eyes growing wider and brows arching up with concern. But he still didn't look away, and Torveld exalted in that small victory even as he rubbed small circles into Erasmus' hips to soothe the worry creeping inward toward that beautiful smile.

“Even princes have room to improve,” he said, keeping his words soft and slow, “I want you always to be honest with me, no matter what. I want us both to be happy, together.”

Erasmus' lips twitched for several long moments, his eyes distant as he no doubt raced to find the right words. Torveld made himself wait, thumbs still working in their slow, soothing circles.

“Simply to receive Master Torveld's desire brings joy,” Erasmus said at length, speaking haltingly but with a steady voice, “There is great pleasure in kissing and being kissed, because you are Master Torveld. That is all I kn-....th-this slave knows.”

“Thank you,” Torveld murmured, his smile softening with fondness and satisfaction.

Erasmus looked down and nodded. He worried his lip, and Torveld leaned in to press one more kiss – quick and chaste – to the corner of his mouth. He was rewarded with a soft gasp of surprise.

“For your honesty, not only for saying such lovely flattering things about me,” Torveld clarified with a warm chuckle, “And Erasmus?”

With more hesitance than before, Erasmus looked up and met Torveld's eyes. His fingers were fidgeting again in his lap. Torveld let all his affection fill his expression and stretch his smile wide.

“You may speak plainly with me, at least when we are alone,” he said, “You must tire of so much humble language. And we are not quite as rigid here in Patras anyway, about how slaves speak.”

This was not strictly true; only pleasure slaves were given leave to drop the proscribed humble speech. Even then, it was allowed only in private and only at the whim of their own masters. For all Torveld knew, the same practice prevailed in Akielos as well. But such minute details barely mattered in the face of Erasmus' shyly hopeful smile.

“There is nothing this slave would not endure to honor you, Master Torveld,” he said, soft voice laced again with reverence, before adding like a confession, “And long practice can make anything easy.”

Torveld hummed thoughtfully. He wondered how much time Erasmus had devoted to such practice, whether he had repeated humble pronouns and verbs alongside the rote phrases of submission Torveld had grown to dislike. Perhaps he practiced it all together with the endless prostrations Akielos taught their palace slaves. Torveld did not dwell on it long, for Erasmus cut into his thoughts with a tentative question.

“But...you truly wish for this slave to speak plainly?”

“Yes,” Torveld answered without any pause, “Yes. When we are alone, if nothing else.”

You ought to speak in your own words.

He did not speak this errant thought, because it made no sense. Instead he focused on the way Erasmus' eyes lit up, on the way his smile parted his lips and spread up into his cheeks. Instead he thought of how he had made Erasmus happy, and contented himself with that.

“I am honored by your indulgence, Master Torveld,” Erasmus said, and for all that his words seemed a rote phrase, they were rich with sincerity.

Torveld chuckled and smiled wide enough to feel the corners of his eyes crinkle upward. He shook his head fondly and brushed his fingers through the fluff of curls that fell over Erasmus' ear. Erasmus blushed prettily and tilted his head into the touch. His eyes fluttered closed, but there was no trace of worry in his lovely face, at least for the moment. Torveld exalted in another small victory.

Slowly, he was learning how to keep this precious boy happy. He had never struggled before, with his past slaves, to fulfill that master's duty. Then again, none of his past slaves had been tortured by Veretians without any idea of how to properly treat a slave. Torveld presumed that was the cause of his stumbling so far. As Erasmus healed, and no longer needed quite so careful a hand, Torveld could resume the ease he had always had with his slaves. Selfishly, perhaps, he hoped that day would arrive soon; the discomfort of questioning his actions and thoughts around Erasmus was beginning to weary him.

“May I...” Erasmus murmured, and drew Torveld's attention back to him fully, “May I ask a question?”

“Of course,” Torveld said, and idly ran his thumb over the curve of Erasmus' ear.

A soft gasp of pleasure caught in Erasmus' throat, and he paused for the space of a breath before asking his question. The pause had none of the uncertain tension which usually filled his silences, but instead seemed to be simply the time of a young man regaining the order of his thoughts after having them scattered by a pleasant touch. Torveld smiled, all thoughts of weariness banished from his mind.

“Master Torveld said 'this morning would be different',” Erasmus said, “Does that mean....will you be staying in your room this morning?”

“I will,” Torveld chuckled, “For a while, at least. Come late morning, I shall have to return to my neverending meetings.”

Erasmus smiled brightly, and Torveld had to laugh again, joy bubbling up from him like water from the source of a spring. He ran his hand up to the small of Erasmus' back, let the other cup around his jaw, and pulled him into a gentle languorous kiss. They were both a bit flushed when Torveld drew away, though there had been no physical intensity to the embrace. Torveld caught the glance Erasmus made toward the bed, and met the shyly inquisitive look Erasmus offered him. Smiling still, he shook his head and pressed one last kiss – short and longing – to the young man's lips.

“Sadly, we will not be spending the morning alone,” he explained, “But we will have this evening together, all to ourselves.”

“I will look forward to this evening,” Erasmus whispered.

“As will I,” Torveld said, even as a thrill of anticipation ran down his spine.

He made himself draw even further away from the heat of the air between them. It would not be long now before Aldiran and Ritha arrived, and there was still breakfast to be had. And, of course, he would never hear the end of it if Torgeir heard he was caught in the middle of a passionate embrace with Erasmus by guests he had himself summoned to his rooms. He was too old for such thoughtless breaches of propriety and etiquette; this he knew well. Knowing did not make it easier to resist his body's desires, though long practice did help. So he drew a slow breath to settle his heated blood and willed his mind to stop recalling the way Erasmus' voice cracked as he cried out in climax.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, “Breakfast is laid out. I thought we could eat together first, before our guests arrive.”

“Guests?” Erasmus echoed.

“Ah, yes,” Torveld chuckled, “We'll be meeting with your new teachers today.”

“Oh,” Erasmus said, with a look of uncertain excitement, “You still wish me to learn mathematics?”

“Of course,” Torveld said with a broad smile, “And riding. Your letters, too, so you can read the histories.”

“I was taught letters in Ios,” Erasmus said, a note of confusion in his voice, “Enough to suit a master's needs. As with the note you left.”

“I know that, dear one,” Torveld said, eyes soft as he continued, “But, if Akielos is as like to us as I believe, you haven't learned the scripts used in higher writing. Nor any in Patran. And an education is hardly complete if you can't read the histories and philosophers.”

“...those are for the education of highborn men,” Erasmus murmured with a note of protest.

Torveld cocked his head to the side, brows knitting. Erasmus was contemplating the center of Torveld's chest, the edge of his lip caught between his teeth. He had seemed tentatively eager to learn mathematics, moments ago, but now he seemed – Ashamed? Afraid? Or was it simply confusion that left him so subdued?

Torveld wondered if perhaps his plans were too much at once. It was not untrue, what Erasmus said; it must indeed seem strange, to a slave, to be offered a world of knowledge beyond what he could have ever expected to receive. If Torveld continued on this path, Erasmus would be the only slave in Bazal, in all of Patras, who could read a book or write a mathematical proof or gallop a horse across an open field. A lonely place, perhaps, and both of them open to ridicule. It was not too late to call off the idea. Yet, faced with the looming future, Torveld could not bring himself to change his path.

He reached up to touch Erasmus' cheek, pulled the young man in toward him, and gently tilted his face up. Erasmus looked at him, guileless brown eyes revealing only the adoration they always held as an undercurrent, and breathed cool air shallowly across Torveld's nose. No, he could not turn off the path now. There was no alternate to retreat to. He followed the pull in his chest as it led him to lean upward and bring his lips flush with Erasmus'. He would follow it until it reached its end.

The guard at the door announced the arrival of Torveld's guests rather more loudly than necessary. Torveld supposed he could not fault him, though; he must suspect Torveld to be lost in passionate dalliance and thus in need of an especially loud interruption to give him warning. His suspicion was not at all far from the mark, either.

Erasmus slid off his lap and moved to stand behind his chair, quiet and unremarkable as furniture. A moment later, Aldiran and Ritha bowed their way into the room. Torveld smiled a beaming welcome and barely noticed the rustle of silk as Erasmus sunk to his knees behind the chair.

“Thank you for coming,” Torveld said, “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

The two men bowed once again before settling themselves on nearby seats. Aldiran sat with the same quiet dignity as always, face expressionless, eyes bright as he considered his surroundings. He had reminded Torveld of the austere philosophers of old when he arrived at the palace as a young man to take up the post of royal tutor; now, a few years short of forty, he looked the part even more perfectly.

Ritha had none of the detached calm that Aldiran possessed. He sat at the edge of his chair, one leg visibly struggling not to fidget in place. Torveld did not know him as well; at barely past thirty, he was not even ten years into his career as royal horse-master, and Torveld's visits to the palace had been increasingly rare over the past decade. Ritha was born to a merchant family, if Torveld recalled correctly, well-versed in the breeding and trade of horses but clearly not accustomed to the manners of the nobility. Torveld broadened his smile rather than let it slip into a discomfited frown. After all, Torgeir trusted this man's skill, and Torveld never began negotiations with insults.

“Your Highness,” Aldiran said smoothly, with a polite dip of his head, “I was honored to accept your summons this morning.”

“As was I,” Ritha said, a rushed quality to his words that spoke of mounting nerves, “Terribly honored, of course, so very honored. Your Highness.”

Aldiran had the courtesy to hide his chuckle with a delicate cough. Torveld again wondered to himself how a man with such a frantic demeanor had achieved a post in the royal household. Talent compensated for much. Torgeir had hired a man to keep his horses and teach his children to ride, not a courtier to entertain at parties.

“I am pleased you both were available. I hope to begin as quickly as possible,” Torveld said.

“Your Highness is decisive, as always,” Aldiran spoke, “Your summons mentioned enlisting our services as instructors?”

“Indeed, yes,” Torveld said with a nod, “And there is much to teach, so I would prefer not to delay.”

“As you say, Your Highness, quite wisely,” Aldiran agreed, “Learning is best begun as early as possible.”

“Yes, yes,” Ritha cut in, head bobbing with the force of his nods, “The body adapts more readily when it is young. Most wise. Most commendable.”

“You flatter me,” Torveld said with a modest smile, “It is only common sense to begin a long task at the first opportunity.”

“Most true, yes,” Ritha continued, “Truly spoken. Indeed.”

Aldiran, however, was quiet, considering his next words with his mouth turned down and his eyes sharp.

“I fear I must beg my own ignorance,” Aldiran finally said, “...is Your Highness expecting an heir?”

“No, of course not,” Torveld laughed, taken aback at the sudden question, “Aldiran, my friend, it's well known I have no wife or mistress.”

“It is as you say, Your Highness,” Aldiran admitted, and seemed to be speaking through clenched teeth, brows just barely furrowed, “Thus, your summons was.... somewhat of a shock.”

Torveld raised his eyebrows in surprise, but they quickly drew together as he puzzled through Aldiran's words. Why should the summons be a shock, and what did that have to do with an heir? Torveld had no plans to marry or father children; he had expected this was widely known. And regardless, his assigning Aldiran and Ritha to teach Erasmus had nothing to do with that at all. Then again....had he in fact mentioned Erasmus in the summons he sent to each of them? A mysterious summons to teach an unknown student, sent by a man with no children or young charges, could be shocking, he supposed. He laughed again, softly, at his own foolishness.

“My apologies, Aldiran,” he said, “I seem to have forgotten important details in my rush to get started with his lessons.”

“Yes, but whose lessons, sire?” Aldiran asked, voice straining toward exasperation.

“Erasmus, dear,” Torveld said quietly, turning in his chair to look down at the young man kneeling just behind him, “Stand up and come here.”

Erasmus stood immediately and took an uncertain step forward. He kept his head bowed, beautiful eyes cast downward and half-hidden by golden curls.

Aldiran coughed politely, covering surprise, perhaps, or disbelief. Torveld in turn repressed his sigh. Ritha was openly shocked, eyes flicking between Erasmus and Torveld as if waiting to hear Torveld ask the slave to go fetch whatever mysterious student he was hiding.

“You have both surely heard of the consignment from Vere to our lord King Torgeir,” Torveld spoke into the thick silence hanging between the four men, “Erasmus has come to me from among the slaves gifted to Patras.”

“He is a fine prize, Your Highness,” Aldiran said, politely appreciative, “A perfect beauty, balanced as a sculpture.”

“And a testament to Akielon training!” Ritha cut in, “Why, I...I didn't even notice him there.”

Torveld felt a pang in his jaw and forced it to relax; the tight pain in his gut was more difficult to remedy. It was already familiar, though he still could not make sense of it. He had felt it first on the road from Vere, as he noticed his advisers merrily forget Erasmus was present. Then again, at the banquet with his beloved nieces and nephew, in whose company he normally was filled only with mirth and affection – the piercing twist of pain had caught him off guard. And it had only grown as the three of them discussed Erasmus' beauty and elegance with Torveld, the way one might compliment a man's horse as it stood beside him, and never addressed Erasmus himself with any of their comments. Torveld had been bewildered, then, by his growing indignation, and asked Erasmsus for a song as much to spare himself the fright of it as to stop his nieces and nephew speaking. And now again here, his gut twisted with agonized heat and his mind clouded with resentment, when these men's only trespass was to compliment their prince's slave. And Erasmus was, indeed, worth praising. Torveld looked at him, took one slow breath.

“Yes, he is stunning,” Torveld murmured, and felt the coiling pain sharpen into a knot in his chest, and could not fathom why, “But I have not called you here on account of his looks.”

He paused to take another breath, centering his mind away from the perplexing emotions filling him. No one else spoke, surely sensing that he had yet more to say. Erasmus glanced toward him from under the sweep of his hair, amber eyes bright with concern and affection. Torveld smiled. He turned his head back to face the other two men properly, the smile sitting broad and confident on his face.

“I've come to know Erasmus very well as we traveled from Vere, and though he is an exceptional beauty, that is in fact the least delightful thing about him,” Torveld admitted, 

“He possesses a unique resilience and compassion, rare even in free men. His wit, as well, has impressed me. And this, with none of the usual education afforded to a young man.”

Torveld could feel Erasmus' nervous agitation in the air between them, but the boy made no outward sign of distress, standing still as a decorative statue at Torveld's side. Ritha was poorly concealing a growing look of horror as he began to grasp Torveld's intent. Aldiran kept his face neutral, but his usual dignified posture seemed somehow even stiffer. He was the first to speak.

“Your Highness is truly fortunate,” he said in a measured tone, picking words with infinite care, “The company of a beautiful and devoted slave is an exquisite pleasure, and to have fine conversation added to that pleasure is indeed a rare fortune. Yet it is no shock that fate has chosen to reward a noble and well-loved Prince with such a gift.”

“Perhaps it is as you say,” Torveld replied with a slight nod, “If he is a gift from fate, it is all the more important that I not squander my fortune by letting him waste away unappreciated.”

“I am certain no one could accuse Your Highness of that,” Aldiran assured smoothly, “Your favor is clear to see in his fine garments, and your own words of praise.”

“Yet words fade, and even the finest clothing will age and wear with time.”

“They may last as long as the favor of a noble heart,” Aldiran countered, delicately pointed, “A slave's gifts are as their service – an ephemeral pleasure.”

Torveld felt, and quickly suppressed, a completely irrational spark of rage. There was nothing to gain in hurling angry words at Aldiran, and there was besides nothing untrue in the man's words. Torveld himself was long familiar with the swell and fade of affection so characteristic of dalliances with slaves; though he had cared for each slave he had ever taken to bed, everyone knew they were not affairs meant to last. Torveld had retired at least a dozen slaves to household service in Bazal over the years, as naturally as anyone did. Yet to be reminded that he would someday tire of Erasmus, as he had tired of all the rest before, felt like an accusation.

_I want to give him something lasting._

“Wise as ever, friend Aldiran,” Torveld said, and did not speak the thought that filled his heart unbidden, “And certainly I do not argue this truth. Yet even if a sword may one day rust, no one can fault its owner for keeping it carefully sharpened and polishing it to shine while it is still in his hands.”

Aldiran's lips twitched and pursed shut, and he nodded his head in recognition of Torveld's rhetorical victory. He was not a man who enjoyed being out-debated, but he was not a sore loser, either. Torveld dared a small sigh of relief. He had not expected resistance to his idea of having Erasmus taught; he was now realizing he really should have. In the moment of quiet, he noticed Erasmus was trembling – tiny, shivering tremors that Torveld felt more than saw – but he did not have time to think more of it before Ritha took his turn at convincing a prince to change his course of action.

“Your Highness, do you truly mean to engage us as instructors to a slave?” he asked, cutting bluntly to the heart of things with no visible regard for finesse.

Torveld reminded himself that not every man was a trained diplomat. Surely Ritha was good at teaching, good with horses, skilled where he needed to be. Still he felt a kind of kinship with Aldiran, who had winced at his companion's words.

“Yes, I do,” Torveld said.

“But....Your Highness!” Ritha stammered, apparently shocked at the obvious answer to his own question, “It is....This has not ever been done. To teach a slave- to instruct him in the arts of free men. Well, Your Highness, really, I have heard of you always as a reasonable man, with a level head. It is highly... irregular... to order something like this.”

“Yes, it has never been done,” Torveld replied, syllables strained, “But I am not proposing to build a school of letters and enroll every slave in the kingdom in it. Erasmus is one slave, and his instruction is simply the whim of his master, no different than having him wear a certain color or perform a particular dance during dinners.”

“Your Highness...” Ritha pressed, brows furrowed so deeply his forehead was nothing but a large wrinkle.

“I will not argue this further,” Torveld cut him off, tone as final as the dismissive wave of his hand, “If my reputation says I am a reasonable man, let that speak on my behalf. Even reasonable men may sometimes lapse into fancy.”

Ritha sunk backward into his seat, cowed and fidgeting again. He nodded, though the ripple of disapproval in his expression remained. Aldiran, under his mask of calm, bore the same disapproval in his eyes. Torveld quite abruptly felt an ache in his temple.

“Call it infatuation if it pleases you,” he sighed, “But I asked for you both because you are trusted and respected. I have seen the fruits of your success with my brother's children.”

Torveld paused to watch their reaction. Both men straightened, chests swelling with pride. Torveld smiled, though the pain in his temple remained.

“Erasmus is important to me,” he continued, “And I wish to see him educated. You may refuse my request and leave me to find another, lesser man for the position, of course. But if you accept, and perform your task as dutifully as in your other assignments – whatever you may think of it – you will gain my lasting goodwill.”

Ritha hesitated, all slumped shoulders and shifting eyes as he weighed his options. But Aldiran did not seem to need the moment of consideration; he settled into his posture and gave Torveld a firm nod.

“I would be honored, Your Highness,” he answered, “Though it is...whimsical, you have shown it holds a certain logic. And I have always valued your friendship. I will commit myself to this project.”

Torveld felt relief building in his chest, but he did not release it on his breath just yet. With a reciprocal nod to Aldiran, he turned his gaze on Ritha.

“W-well,” the man hedged, “Well...I suppose if anyone could teach a slave to ride, I would be the man to do it. I'm not in the habit of turning down a challenge. Your Highness.”

“Shall I take that as your acceptance of the position?” Torveld asked mildly.

“Th-that is, how I intended it, yes.”

“Excellent,” Torveld sighed, finally releasing the built-up relief from his lungs, “Then I thank you both, with a full heart."

He got no reply beyond two respectful seated bows. Instructors secured, he pressed on to the practical details. He was, after all, not a man to stop at theory and formal pledges of service.

“It is obviously best that he receive his lessons during the day, while I am occupied with my daily work,” he began, “I understand that you both also have your own schedules to keep, and certainly I do not wish to hinder you in your other work. As much as reasonable, however, I would like Erasmus to have lessons every day.”

Ritha straightened in his seat so sharply that the cushion nearly shot off from underneath him. Aldiran looked far less perturbed, even his expression barely moving. But then, he did not have a stable full of horses to tend to on top of his current students, either.

“Th-that would be quite, quite impossible, unfortunately, Your Highness,” Ritha said, voice somewhere between indignation and the nervous strain of trying not to be impolite.

“Very well,” Torveld said with a calm shrug, “How often can you attend to him?”

There were a few beats of quiet as Ritha tabulated, his fingers tapping on his knee in the rhythm of counting. Torveld waited patiently. It came to his attention, fleeting like a distant noise, that Erasmus was no longer trembling where he stood.

“Perhaps three days a week, in the hours between the morning meal and the midday meal,” Ritha finally offered.

“That should be perfectly fine,” Torveld said with a decisive hum, “I will have him meet you at the stables. He is able to keep his seat well enough, but you will have to teach him everything else from the start.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Ritha nodded, visibly relieved, “I will do my utmost.”

Torveld only nodded to him, before turning to the royal tutor.

“And you, friend Aldiran? How often could you make time for Erasmus' lessons?”

“I believe six days would be possible,” Aldiran answered with smooth assurance, “Perhaps his letters in the morning three days, and on the days his mornings are full with riding, mathematics and philosophy after the midday meal?”

Torveld smiled, true and warm. He did not try to stop the grateful swell of affection for the man that rose in his chest. Aldiran had always been a dutiful and honest man, for all that he was stiff in manner and used words with a ponderous cunning. It was clear he did not truly understand Torveld's whimsical determination to educate a slave, but nonetheless he seemed resolved to give the task his best. All was settling to plan, as neatly as Torveld could have expected.

“Much as I had hoped,” he answered Aldiran, “You may teach him here. I will tell the guards when to expect you.”

“As you wish, Your Highness,” Aldiran agreed with a polite dip of his head.

“I thank you both again,” Torveld said, “I entrust Erasmus to you for teaching, and look forward to seeing the results flourish.”

Aldiran stood and bowed, turning to leave with an elegant posture and a murmured word of parting. Ritha sprung to his feet, fidgeting as he bowed, and hurried from the room as if fleeing a barely-avoided punishment. Torveld sighed, but shook his head to clear it.

The teachers were gone from the room, and he no longer wished to think of them until necessary. Before long he would be expected in Torgeir's private audience room to discuss the Veretian issue with their generals and advisors. But for the moment, he was alone again with a gentle and beautiful young man, and the air smelled of fresh fruit and long-simmered spiced porridge. He turned to the side and looked up at Erasmus, who was watching him with lowered eyes, fingertips twitching with nerves.

“Breakfast?” Torveld offered, smile growing as his eyes softened at the edges.

Erasmus nodded, eyes sparkling as a shy grin spread across his plush lips. He lifted his head as Torveld stood up, and the burnished curls fell back away from his eyes, and he did not look away for the space of two languid breaths. Torveld's heart sang as he took Erasmus delicately by the hand and led him toward the table across the room.

___________

After an arduous afternoon in Torgeir's study, poring over Prince Laurent's latest letters, Torveld stepped out into the night air and let out a heavy sigh. The letters did not bring happy news. Laurent's position grew yet more precarious, and the Regent's ambitions more dangerous. If the situation progressed much further in the same direction it was heading, Torveld would have to make good on his word and bring troops to battle on behalf of the young prince. A direct action against the Regent, an open declaration of Patras' loyalties in this conflict that seemed already to be barreling toward war. It was not an action to be taken lightly, but neither was breaking his word to Laurent. Torveld wished his foresight had been clearer; three months ago in Vere he had not expected the prince's troubles to escalate quite so much or so quickly. Perhaps he had hoped too strongly. Perhaps he had underestimated the Regent's viciousness, even after seeing firsthand what cruelties he allowed at his court.

Torveld sighed again and pressed his knuckle between his brows. The Regent was not a good man; this much he knew. No good man would have allowed helpless slaves to be burned and tortured for petty amusement. For that matter, no good and true man would be angling to steal the throne from its rightful and perfectly capable heir. But, from all that Torveld knew, the Regent had the advantage in this arena, and Laurent was fighting a noble but losing battle. Supporting him was the right thing to do. 

And Torveld would always choose the right thing over the safe thing if he could, but it was not only him deciding, and not only him at risk. If Patras committed troops to Laurent, and Laurent did not win his throne, the Regent would have more than sufficient reason to declare war. Yet if Patras did not commit troops, the chance of him winning dropped dramatically. Torveld groaned and then tossed his head back to draw in a long, deep breath of the cold night air.

He could see outside through the arched window beside him. The moon had already risen in the black sky. He was late for dinner. He let out his breath in a rush of frustration. Echoing down the corridor came a shout. Dagil's voice.

“Ah, there you are, sir!”

Torveld straightened up and turned to face Dagil as he bustled over. Dagil's old body moved with a certain jittering, each limb wobbling forward on its own like a child's doll hopping forward in the child's hand, but he covered ground swiftly for a man of his age. Torveld summoned a smile as Dagil slowed to a stop beside him, though it took some doing. Dagil gave a fond shake of his old head.

“As exhausted as I thought you would be,” he said, “You look almost as weary as you used to after a day's hard negotiation at the border.”

“I feel as weary,” Torveld said with a slow, tired chuckle.

“You've been hard at work indeed,” Dagil nodded, brows furrowing with concern, “Long meetings with His Majesty most every night. Have you been resting at all?”

“Yes,” Torveld sighed, but could not help a smile, “Erasmus will not sleep unless I'm in the bed with him. You needn't worry, Dagil.”

Dagil hummed in thought and stroked his clean-shaven chin, and the worry in his face smoothed out into a grin that Torveld might almost have called sly.

“Someone has to worry over you, Your Highness,” he said, “And someone has to fetch you back to your rooms for dinner, too.”

“I suppose my food is cold by now,” Torveld said, then turned to Dagil and asked, “Is he waiting on me?”

“No, young Erasmus has eaten, and left you precisely two-thirds of the meal,” Dagil answered, “Or so he tells me. He was studying his letters when I checked in, and I did not linger to tabulate the amount of remaining food.”

“Precisely two-thirds?”

Dagil shrugged, still sporting a good-natured smile. From all Torveld could tell, Dagil was fond of Erasmus, but nonetheless he was regularly and openly baffled by Erasmus' peculiarities. Torveld was equally baffled; it seemed that with each new day he discovered another rule of Erasmus', and he could not always be certain if the rule came of his training or some quirk of his personality.

“I've stopped asking, sir,” Dagil admitted, “Perhaps Akielons are simply inscrutable.”

“None that I have ever met,” Torveld murmured, “There is a reason for their reputation as straightforward and honest.”

“You would surely know better than I, Your Highness.”

Torveld nodded to acknowledge Dagil's words, but his mind was once again elsewhere. He had always known Akielons, even the diplomats and courtiers who were the only Akielons he had met, to be just as straightforward as reputed. They said what they thought and hid nothing; the former ambassador had often marveled to Torveld that even in negotiations the Akielons were honest to a fault. Erasmus was entirely counter to this image, and yet not. He was honest and clear, his emotions easy to read in his face and the notes of his voice. But, for all Torveld's urging, Erasmus still rarely said his thoughts straight out or spoke his mind without being directly asked. And then there were all his strange 'rules', and he could never offer any proper explanation for the need of them or the cause of their convoluted precision. Torveld could not quite reconcile his image of Akielons with the behavior of his lovely new Akielon charge.

“Then again,” he said at length, “All the Akielons I have met were nobles.”

___________

Torveld settled onto a stone bench nestled between two bushes in the back corner of a minor interior garden. The bushes were by now in the full green of spring, speckled with sky blue flowers that had bloomed a few days before, half a month after Torveld returned to Bazal. The path, flat round stones of various sizes laid in the soft dirt and worn smooth by foot traffic, widened into a small clearing in front of him, curving away through the garden on either side. Just across the little clearing, an old twisted willow tree leaned out over the path, its leaves like curtains draped over half the path. The air was fresh with the smell of late spring, but not so heady with perfumed flowers as to be distracting. It was quiet this time of day, when most nobles were in the larger gardens, and the servants and slaves were bustling about serving lunch or cleaning chambers.

Torveld leaned back and let his legs stretch out in front of him, massaging sore muscles with long-practiced fingers. Yet still it did not compare to Erasmus kneading the tension from his body each night. It had become a sort of ritual for them, a further intimacy atop the other physical delights they enjoyed together. Torveld sighed through a wistful smile as he thought of it and, eyes fixed on the cascade of willow leaves, waited. It was not long before his guest appeared round the curve of the path, her elegantly simple dress the same spring green as the plants all around, the same green as the intelligent eyes she fixed on him the moment she stepped into view.

“Hello, uncle,” Toranna said, smiling with quiet joy.

“Hello, dear,” Torveld answered with his own smile, “Have you been well lately?”

“I am always well. I haven't my siblings' tendency to overindulgence,” she said, and they shared a short chuckle, “But I should be the one asking after you.”

Torveld raised an eyebrow. Toranna crossed the clearing and sat down next to him on the bench before she continued, a teasing sparkle in her eyes that echoed the slight upward twitch of her smile. Though she had the restrained temperament of a queen even from childhood, she was not as her younger siblings often charged devoid of humor or playful spirit. She met Torveld's eyes and spoke in the same quiet tone as always.

“The whole palace is chattering over how you dote on your new slave,” Toranna elaborated, “And all the business of clandestine military alliances on top of that. I hope you haven't overexerted yourself.”

Torveld laughed aloud, his eyes crinkling up at the corners, and gave an easy shake of his head.

“I am perfectly well, thank you,” he said, “There is yet plenty enough energy in this body. And my dear Erasmus is gentle with me in the evenings.”

“I can't imagine such a slight creature could be anything but gentle,” Toranna said with a wry smile.

Torveld let out a huff of breath not unlike a chuckle and smiled, even as his chest twisted in protest. He ignored the feeling, for indeed Toranna had done nothing more than tease, and he knew her heart was kind and she meant no ill. She spoke the truth, after all; Erasmus was slight, and gentle even to a fault, and is that not what Torveld appreciated so much about him?

“Truly enough, I don't think Erasmus could treat anyone roughly,” he finally said, having paused too long to sound natural, “He is too kind a person.”

Toranna tilted her head to the side for a long moment, considering Torveld with her shrewd green eyes. Torveld looked back at her and wondered what she was seeing, if she could sense the uncertainty that had struck him, as it now often did, out of nowhere.

“I suppose they choose such dispositions for palace slaves,” Toranna said, tone light but eyes not leaving Torveld's face, “The others are of a similarly delicate nature, always hoping to please.”

“I suppose that is,” Torveld replied, pausing to consider a word, “Desired. I can't imagine any man wanting a slave that is too independent.”

“Nor any woman either,” Toranna agreed, “They are meant to make pleasure easy, for those who already have many demands to meet. A slave is not a lover.”

Torveld turned slowly – not as casually as he'd wished – back to the winding garden path and the drape of willow leaves. Toranna spoke of nothing new. Indeed, he might have said the same words himself once or twice, in sending off a would-be lover of his own.

_“No energy for a lover, you tell me. But I see you take that slip of a boy to your room at night.”_

_“Kadri? A slave is not a lover, my friend. I seek only pleasure with him. But I haven't the energy for more, for courting and making love.”_

The words had come, easy and true, to his own lips. Now, from his niece, though surely they were meant as nothing more than talk, they struck him like an accusation. A slave is not a lover. A slave does not receive a free man's education. A slave does not wear a free man's clothing. A slave is still a slave, no matter the whims and pet projects of a doddering old prince.

“Are you sure you are not too drained, uncle?” Toranna's even voice cut into Torveld's thoughts.

“Yes,” he said immediately, then looked back at her with a rushed smile, “Yes, I am quite fine, dear. Only lost in thought.”

Toranna nodded and returned the smile. Though her eyes were bright with concerned suspicion, she did him the kindness of not pressing the issue. Instead, she straightened out a rumple in her skirt before turning her gaze out to the garden around them.

“Toros has finally petitioned Father for the ambassadorship,” she said, “Months after I implored him to. But at least he is more ready to embrace the duties of royalty than some.”

She shook her head with a put-upon sigh, even as her eyes sparkled with her smile. Torveld chuckled quietly; his heart grew lighter at the change in topic. Moreso at the memory of being – many years ago – as much a frustration to Torgeir as Toros now was to his elder sister.

“Still struggling to convince Torfina?” he guessed.

“She insists that Vask is no concern of hers,” Toranna lamented, “After all, she says, we already have an ambassador to Vask, and one of storied success at that, so what good would her help be?”

Torveld snorted and felt a grin spread across his face. Toranna glanced sideways at him and raised her eyebrows accusingly, even as her eyes sparkled.

“Storied success is just pure flattery,” Torveld said, “And I am no longer the ambassador to the empire.”

“Which, of course, I've told her. At least a thousand times. Read the treaty to her enough that even she could likely quote from it in her sleep.”

Torveld nodded along as she spoke, sympathy growing with each word. Toranna's voice began to rise with her frustration. She paused for a moment and closed her eyes, hand drifting up to pinch the bridge of her nose.

“I have even tried,” she said, dropping her hand back into her lap and looking over at Torveld with a conspiratorial smile, “Plying her with tales of Vask's famously handsome men, and the insinuation she might be invited to join at a coupling fire.”

Torveld clenched his teeth together to hold in a burst of laughter, and some of it escaped as a choked snort through his nose. Toranna's smile grew, and she allowed herself a short fit of giggles. Torveld could not help but join her, laughing along. The sound filled their little alcove and sunk into the earth to nourish the blooming flowers.

When they had recovered, Toranna sat up straight again and wiped her eyes dry with one finger. Torveld leaned backward and stretched his stiff shoulders before settling back to sit. They were both still smiling, and Torveld's heart was full.

“It is always good to hear your laugh, dear niece.”

“I wish I could say you might hear it more often,” Toranna said and hummed thoughtfully, “But it is not becoming of a future queen to be so free in her amusement.”

“Even the future queen might allow herself the simple pleasures of life,” Torveld said, “Certainly Torgeir indulged in plenty of laughter as a young man.”

“As did I, when I was young.”

“Toranna, you are only 25 years old! You are still young. And it has been years already since you laughed freely, as you did in childhood.”

“There is no time lately for dallying in entertainment,” Toranna said with quick shake of her head that jostled her pinned-back hair, “There is too much work to be done.”

“That may be so,” Torveld admitted with a soft sigh, but still fixed her with a look of concern, “But I hope you are finding at least some small ways to rest and enjoy your time. It needn't be evenings wiled away in dance and drink or endless hours passed in daydreams and reading.”

Toranna smiled again, even her eyes crinkling up at the sides, and let out a soft laugh. Torveld felt his heart warm with satisfaction, and he reached out to lay a gentle hand on Toranna's shoulder. She turned her smiling face toward him.

“Wouldn't they be surprised if I did? Those two are always saying I'm too serious,” she chuckled, and then abruptly sighed, “I will try, uncle. It is not that I lack any time to rest...yet so many things weigh on me, and I find it difficult to put them aside.”

Torveld squeezed her shoulder, just a slight pressure to provide comfort. He smiled at her, broad and full of the love he carried in his heart for all his dear nieces and nephews, and for her especially. She was Torgeir's eldest, and it was in holding her as an infant and playing with her as a toddler that he had learned how to be an uncle. It was in her childhood laughter and her determination in all her studies as she grew that he had first found the joy of watching his kin grow up strong and proud.

“I cannot say I have found the secret to that myself,” he admitted, “But it is always worth trying. Even if your worries remain, a long soak in the bath or a good meal with good company can lighten them for a time.”

He gave her shoulder another squeeze and then leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead, as he had done to comfort her in her childhood. When he pulled away, returning his hand to his side, Toranna's smile looked brighter, and he counted his efforts successful.

They sat for a time without speaking. The fluttering of leaves in an afternoon breeze, the faint buzz of flying insects, and the warbling of the garden's songbirds were the only sounds. Toranna had closed her eyes and turned her face upward to catch a beam of sunlight. Torveld chuckled, and did the same. His eyes were still closed when Toranna spoke again.

“It's not that I blame her. She's spent so many years planning to become a prince's wife, and now that path is suddenly gone...she must be feeling lost. But I had expected her to be glad of having a new path laid out for her. No more questions of what to do.”

“Torfina has always had a different temperament than you,” Torveld reminded gently, “She will not likely feel the way you expect. Have you asked her what her objections are?”

“No, I haven't,” Toranna murmured, “Though she has complained loudly enough that it's simply too much work for a newly liberated young woman to bother with.”

“Perhaps,” Torveld said, “She is unsure of herself. I'd wager there is a fair difference between being a prince's wife and being a diplomat in one's own right, and she has only prepared for one of those tasks.”

“I would not ask her if I thought her incapable,” Toranna countered.

“I know that,” Torveld agreed, “But does she?”

A tiny, self-admonishing frown tugged Toranna's mouth down at the corners. But then she shook her head and the frown disappeared, replaced with the familiar calm of her usual neutral expression.

“She will. And I shall know her true objections. And somehow we will solve this, even if I have to become the ambassador myself for a time,” she said, tone as decisive as the sharp glittering of her green eyes.

“If it comes to that, I will support your petition to Torgeir,” Torveld offered, “You'll need it.”

“Yes,” Toranna nodded, “Let us hope I can convince Torfina. I tire of having this same argument with Father.”

“I will speak with him, just in the hypothetical,” Torveld said, “I can likely bring him around about you treating with Vask, if nothing else.”

“If nothing else,” Toranna echoed, the resignation in her voice cushioning the sharp edge of old disappointment.

Torveld smiled wistfully, a familiar prick of pain in his chest as he wished – not for the first time – that this problem could also be solved with a comforting embrace and a piece of sage advice. Toranna outshone all of her brothers, and indeed most of the nobility and soldiers, in swordplay. Even Torveld had not regularly bested her since she was young. He remembered the girl, freshly sixteen, who had tossed him into the dirt with a triumphant grin, and carried herself tall and proud all the rest of that day. And yet, she had never been given the military command that was due, by tradition, to the crown prince of Patras. He remembered the girl, just shy of seventeen, who had come to his room in tears after Torgeir had given that battalion to the son of Queen Lillian's sister. It had been only the second time Torveld saw Toranna cry since she was a toddling infant.

“There is great risk in putting the future sovereign on a battlefield,” he said quietly, the words feeling empty with too much repetition.

“He has seven other heirs, and we are not even at war,” Toranna retorted, allowing her voice to grow harsh with emotion, as she so rarely did, “He rode into battle himself when he was crown prince. We both know risk is not why he refuses me.”

She sat with a straight back and raised her chin, looking around the gardens with stately calm. Collecting herself, Torveld thought, tucking those sharp emotions away again, hidden and cushioned. Then she turned to Torveld with a tired smile.

“It goes against tradition,” she quoted what they had both heard Torgeir insist, “Patras has had reigning queens, but they were never warriors. The battlefield is not a place for women.”

Torveld nodded slowly, holding her gaze. At her age, he had been already accomplished in battle, a veteran of the conflict with Vask, a decorated hero of his country. After the truce, Torgeir appointed him ambassador for his experience with Vaskian military strategy, and there he proved himself a diplomat as well as a warrior. He had given Toranna her first practice sword after seeing the Empress' daughters, and he had imagined her leading her father's soldiers on horseback, with Lillian's bright smile and Torgeir's clear ringing voice.

“I only wish Father would see that tradition does not always lead us down the best path,” Toranna said into Torveld's silence.

“Tradition is the steadiest path,” Torveld replied, “Torgeir has all of Patras' wellbeing to consider, and he cannot know if the untraveled path is safe.”

“If one travels the steady path in shackles, and knows he will be loosed from them by a turning to the untraveled path,” Toranna said, voice low and soft in the shade of the willow tree, “How little might he fear the dangers of the unknown?”

She looked at him from the corner of her eye, and he felt her studying his face as he struggled to answer. He thought of Toranna's bright smile during her first lesson with the swordmaster, all round cheeks and determination. He thought of the tender pride in Lillian's eyes as she watched, and the sour frown that Torgeir had worn. He remembered his own father's voice condemning Vask as uncivilized for wasting their women, who were made for scholarship and the arts and never for the harshness of battle. He remembered the strong bodies and noble hearts of the women he'd befriended in Vask, and their disgust at the way Patras forced its women to languish indoors. He thought of Toranna's heartbroken protests when her father took her birthright and dream of command from her. He thought, strangely, of Erasmus. He turned from Toranna and fixed his eyes on a nearby bush of blooming flowers.

“I have to go see Torfina.”

Torveld heard the gentle rustle of fabric as Toranna stood and walked back out of the garden the way she had come. He did not watch her go.

___________

The stables ran along the north end of the palace, and the riding arena lay at the northernmost end of them. Approaching from the south, and loathe to take the longer route along the path that looped past a neighboring building, Torveld chose to cut through the full length of the stables. He had often taken this route in his youth when he came to fetch his horse for a ride with Torgeir. In recent years it was rare for him to enter the stables here at the palace; besides living for so much of the year at the Vaskian border, he no longer rode for pleasure very often. As he passed, young stablehands fell over themselves to dodge out of the way or somehow bow while holding an armful of tack. Torveld made sure to smile at them and give a quick nod to ease their spirits. Older grooms – some of whom Torveld recognized vaguely – looked just as surprised to see him striding through the long central corridor of the stable, but at least they managed to not make a spectacle of it. Torveld nodded to them, too, all the same.

When finally he reached the far end of the stables, Torveld hurried out into the fresh air. The sun struck him as he stepped outside; for a moment, eyes squinted in the sudden brightness, he could see nothing but clear light. As his eyes finally adjusted, the shapes and colors of the riding arena came into focus. Dead center, bright hair shining like spun gold in the midday sun, there was his Erasmus. He was wearing Laurent's old riding clothes again, and they lent an extra elegance to his long limbs as he sat with his shoulders straight in a beautiful riding posture atop a mottled silver-gray gelding. Torveld felt the breath stolen from his chest as he took in the sight. He drifted forward to the fence that bordered the arena. With both hands resting on the top rung, circling the sun-warm wood, he watched Erasmus ride.

Erasmus was practicing his reining. He led the gelding at a walk through a short course of obstacles laid out on the ground. The gelding stepped over a halved log laid over its path, and then wove its way through a maze of short wooden posts with Erasmus' guidance. He kept his seat remarkably well, Torveld noted, for someone who had been riding on his own less than a month. Torveld wished he could see Erasmus' face, but distance obscured any details. He could see only the bouncing of Erasmus' loose golden curls when the young man shifted his head in looking for the next step in the course.

Erasmus and the gelding were coming up on a platform now, a wide circle of wood as high as a man's thigh with two narrow ramps for a horse to walk up and over it. The gelding tossed his head, and Erasmus pulled the reins sharply to the side to turn him, and they walked full around the platform instead of over it. Torveld winced in sympathy. A shout from off to the side of the obstacle course brought Erasmus to pull up tight on the reins and whip his head toward the sound, and the gelding tossed his head again with even greater agitation as he came abruptly to a stop. Ritha strode quickly up toward Erasmus and the gelding; Torveld had not even noticed him standing to the side until he had shouted.

Torveld could not hear the words from where he stood, but Ritha's arms flailed in gesticulations wild enough to suggest his words were harsh. The gelding tossed his head and stomped one foot, pulling at the reins like he wanted to move away from the man and his loud words. Erasmus listened, his shoulders slumped downward, golden curls fallen across his face as he turned his face downward too. Torveld scowled. He looked around for the nearest gate into the arena, dashed over to it, and stormed across the open space toward them. As he drew closer, he could hear what exactly Ritha was shouting.

“How many times must I tell you the elements of this course, boy?! Even children are not so thick-headed as you! I don't know how you fooled His Highness into thinking you were clever when you are clearly even more deeply cursed with idiocy than the rest of your kind!”

The gelding was the first to notice him. It craned its head in his direction, nostrils flaring, as he approached. Ritha was too caught up in his scolding to hear Torveld coming, but Erasmus noticed the gelding's agitation and looked up toward Torveld. His eyes were wet. Torveld pulled up short two strides before he reached Ritha's back. He could feel the roar of rage in his throat even before he spoke, and was only barely able to cage it; his voice was steady, conversational, but trembling with his anger.

“A wonderful way you have with your students.”

Ritha froze mid-word and then spun around on his heels. His eyes doubled in size, full of horror, as he saw Torveld standing there glaring at him. Torveld let his scowl deepen, and did not deny himself a thrill of pleasure when he noticed Ritha gulp in reaction. Ritha glanced behind himself, at Erasmus, and then looked back to Torveld. Then, slowly, he sank into a low bow from his waist.

“Your Highness Prince Torveld! What an unexpected honor!”

“I had a bit of time unexpectedly free, and I thought I'd like to see Erasmus,” Torveld answered, jaw tight as he spoke.

“A wonderful idea, Your Highness,” Ritha laughed, straightening up and adding with a frantic smile, “Your Erasmus will be pleased to see you, I'm sure.”

“I suspect,” Torveld said, “If this is how you treat him, he would be pleased to see anyone that was not you.”

Ritha gulped again, and began to flounder for words. Excuses, no doubt, or worse yet, justifications. Torveld held up a hand and cut him off; Ritha shut his mouth with a snap of teeth.

“I entrusted you with an important, delicate task,” Torveld said, “I do not easily forget betrayals of my trust, Ritha.”

“Your Hig-”

“You are dismissed, permanently, from my employ,” Torveld cut him off again, “For as long as you remain here and work for the King, you are never to speak to or even approach Erasmus. Is that clear?”

Ritha floundered again for several seconds, caught between dismay and indignation. Finally, he wilted in defeat and nodded his way into another low bow.

“Yes, Your Highness. Most clear.”

“Good,” Torveld said, “Then go.”

With one last jolt of indignation, Ritha hurried away as quickly as his legs would allow. Torveld watched him only for as long as it took to make sure he was out of earshot and still retreating. Then he turned and stepped forward toward Erasmus, who still sat atop the gelding. His cheeks were flushed, and those were definitely tears in his eyes, though he tried to blink them away. His hands were clenched tight around the reins, knuckles white and shaking. The gelding stomped his foot and let out an agitated sigh, tail flicking back and forth. Torveld stopped beside him and reached out one hand to stroke his nose, soothing. He placed his other hand on Erasmus' knee and looked up into Erasmus' wet eyes with a smile full of regret.

“My darling...I had no idea.”

Erasmus shook his head, just enough to jostle his curls, and smiled at Torveld. It was a tiny, wavering thing, so unlike the smiles that usually brightened his beautiful face, and Torveld's heart filled with shame to see it.

“I should have been more careful,” Erasmus said, “It-it was my fault he yelled.”

“No. The fault was in him,” Torveld insisted, “Any student might make mistakes, yet that is not cause to berate him.”

“Fools who will not learn must be taught somehow,” Erasmus murmured, soft enough that Torveld doubted he had heard correctly.

Yet the aching sadness in Erasmus' eyes told Torveld that his ears did not lie to him. Torveld's breath caught, and his gut twisted with pain. He reached up further and clasped his hand around Erasmus' where they clung, shivering, to the gelding's reins.

“That is not any way to teach. A man learns nothing from lies, no matter how loudly they are shouted.”

Erasmus sniffed, and his lovely brown eyes filled anew with tears, but Torveld saw something shining in them beyond the resignation and sorrow he had seen moments before. He squeezed his hand tight around Erasmus' shaking fists and carried onward.

“You are not a fool, Erasmus. I will suffer no one to say that you are. Nor will I suffer anyone to mistreat you as Ritha has.”

“Master Torveld is too kind...”

“I am not nearly kind enough, for what you deserve,” Torveld insisted, “I left you alone with that wretched Ritha for nearly a fortnight. And clearly I do not tell you often enough what a wonderful young man you are.”

Erasmus laughed, a soft wet hiccup of a thing, and then smiled again, looking more like his usual self. Torveld returned the smile, heart swelling with affection.

“You sent him away,” Erasmus said, with one last sniffle, “You saved me, again. You are the kindest man I have ever known, Master Torveld. And you call me 'wonderful' every day. Sometimes twice. I... I only wish I could be worthy of all your kindness.”

“You are,” Torveld said, simple and true.

Erasmus flushed. His smile grew, but there was an uncertainty lingering in his eyes. He held Torveld's gaze for a moment, and his fingers fidgeted under Torveld's palm, and it seemed as if he would speak. The gelding whickered and tossed his head, and whatever Erasmus might have said disappeared back inside his mind. He looked down at the horse, and then back to Torveld, eyebrows raised in concern.

“I don't think he likes the platform...he does that every time we get close to it,” he said, “And he only does it otherwise if he's upset about something...”

Torveld chuckled. He drew his hand off Erasmus' and took a step back. The gelding blew air out his nose and twitched his ears, one eye fixed on Torveld.

“Well, you just have to talk him through it,” Torveld said with a warm smile, “He's nervous, wants a guiding hand. If you lead, dearest, he'll follow.”

“I'm not really made to lead,” Erasmus said with a blush and a shy, uncertain smile in return.

“You have to lead to ride,” Torveld said, and paused just a moment to look up at Erasmus, then, “Come. I'll show you.”

He took the gelding's reins and walked them back to the start of the obstacle course. He released the reins and bid Erasmus to start the course. As they worked their way through it, the horse and his rider, Torveld walked beside them with a watchful eye. When they approached the platform, the gelding shied and tossed his head. Erasmus' eyes flicked to Torveld looking for guidance; his hand was already poised to turn the gelding aside, as he had done before. Torveld shook his head no.

“Talk to him, pat his neck. Keep the reins loose and urge him forward with your heels.”

Erasmus nodded and turned his attention back to the gelding with a nervous hum. He pressed his heels gently into the gelding's flanks and dropped one hand off the reins to reach forward and stroke the gelding's neck. Then he leaned forward in the saddle and brought his face closer to the gelding's ears. Torveld saw his lips moving, but did not hear the words he murmured. The gelding snuffled but continued forward and did not shy again as he stepped onto the ramp. He carried Erasmus up onto the platform, hooves picking carefully across it and down the ramp on the other side, as Erasmus perched forward in his seat and urged him forward with soothing words. When they had safely stepped down off the platform, Erasmus let the gelding walk a few more steps, then sat down into the saddle and pulled back on the reins to stop him.

He swiveled in the saddle with a shock of energy, turning to face Torveld with a wide grin, his eyes sparkling with delight. Torveld laughed, hearty and full, and felt his spirit soar. Erasmus laughed, too. The joy in his eyes turned to pride, and Torveld gasped as if seeing him again for the first time. It was an expression Torveld had seen many times but never once on Erasmus' face; it was beautiful.

“I did it! Master Torveld, thank you, thank you! I did it!”

“Yes...yes, darling, you did.”

___________

In the middle of talking through a list of friends and relations with troops to spare, with Torveld's finger still poised over the paper in the midst of calculations, Torgeir had stood from his desk and walked over to the window of his study. Torveld had closed his mouth around a suggestion that they start inquiries now just in case, expecting Torgeir to speak up in protest. Expecting Torgeir to say something, at least. But he had turned to the window and looked out without a single word.

Now still he gazed out at the courtyard that formed the center of all the rooms in this wing. He would be looking toward the royal library, by Torveld's guess. At this hour of the evening it was unlikely anyone was in the library to observe, even if Torgeir could see through the dim and in through the glass windows, but his gaze was intent as if he was looking at something specific. Torveld cleared his throat more loudly than was strictly necessary.

“I've not forgotten you're there, brother,” Torgeir said flatly.

“What are you thinking of with such focus?” Torveld asked.

“You never come to dinner with the family lately.”

Torveld raised one eyebrow. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back slightly in his chair. Torgeir did not turn around to see any of these gestures of disbelief, and so Torveld spoke to the back of Torgeir's head with all the dubious tone he could muster.

“That is the great concern of my King's overburdened mind? With upheaval and conflict surrounding us in these difficult times, my King is concerned about dinner guests.”

“It is the concern of your brother's heart, Torveld,” said Torgeir, and the strain in his voice quelled some of Torveld's irritation, “Your brother is concerned about his family.”

A spark of guilt awakened in Torveld's heart. Though it was long his habit to take dinner alone or with one or two intimate friends, he had always made time to dine with family once a week, when home in Bazal. It only occurred to him in that very moment that in all the month and a half since returning from Vere, he had taken every night's dinner in his rooms with Erasmus. Of course Torgeir would note the absence. Of course Torgeir would be hurt.

“I'm sorry.”

Torgeir sighed and turned back from the window. He did not, however, walk back to his desk. Nor did he speak, but simply looked at Torveld with furrowed brows and pain in his eyes. Torveld spoke instead.

“It is only that this task weighs heavily on me, brother. My mind is full of the planning, and the waiting for word. I did not mean to sound uncaring.”

“It weighs on me as well,” Torgeir said, “It is not our conflict, and yet still I spend long hours each week laboring over it with you. Because you have sworn to me of it's importance. Because, in the face of all the foolhardy insanity this clandestine alliance represents, I trust my brother.”

“Torgeir...”

Torgeir held up his hand for silence, a tired and hasty impersonation of the gesture he used to quiet banquets and council meetings. Torveld sighed and frowned.

“But that is not what I wanted to speak about,” Torgeir said with a sound not unlike a groan, “We have spoken at length already, and it is late. There is nothing more to do about the Veretian problem for this moment at least.”

“It was not by intent. My missing dinners with the family,” Torveld ventured.

“I never thought it was.”

A silence stretched between them for a moment, in which Torveld felt the pull of Torgeir's silent question like a growing tension at the back of his head. He did not know what explanation to give; it seemed entirely too callous to admit that he had forgotten. Even his own heart stung to think it, and know that it was true.

“Lillian tells me you have engaged the tutor for your slave.”

Torveld straightened in his seat, crossed arms tightening around his chest. He frowned.

“And a groom to teach him riding,” he said, voice tight, “That is no secret.”

“A groom? Why not Ritha?”

“He mistreated Erasmus,” Torveld answered, and felt his jaw clench.

Torgeir's face changed – the low furrowed brows curved upward, and the stern frown tilted sideways. Confusion blossomed in his dark eyes.

“How?” he asked, “If he has laid hands on your property-”

“Not like that. It was nothing illegal,” Torveld sighed, “He berated Erasmus.”

The confusion on Torgeir's expression sank deeper into the creases of his face, tinged with the same irate disbelief Torveld himself had felt only minutes before.

“Berated?” Torgeir echoed, “Berated.”

Torveld felt heat rushing to his face, the same indignant flush of rage that he had felt on that day in the stables.

“Erasmus made a minor mistake, and Ritha was cruel, for no reason, when correcting him.”

“You dismissed a man for scolding a slave who had made a mistake?” Torgeir repeated, his voice flat.

“I dismissed him,” Torveld retorted, “For speaking cruelly to his student instead of teaching.”

“His student,” Torgeir said, scoffing the same way he did when hearing out Torien's excuses for skipping lessons, “Torveld, the boy is a slave.”

Torveld weathered a thoroughly ridiculous urge to punch his brother in the face, and then put it behind him. He took a steadying breath.

“He is my slave. And I wish to have him learn riding, and letters,” he said, keeping his voice even with some great effort, “I will not suffer his teachers – or anyone – to speak to him that way.”

Torgeir sighed. His jaw worked back and forth under his pursed lips as he considered, and apparently dismissed, several responses. Finally, with another heavier sigh, he leveled Torveld with all the affectionate disapproval an elder brother could wield, and then spoke.

“You are gentle with him. And I do understand, Torveld. You are enamored of him, and he is fragile after mistreatment in Vere, and I know you mean well.”

“Torgeir, you needn't-”

“But I think, perhaps, it has gone too far,” Torgeir continued, cutting through Torveld's protest, “You dote on him. You expect people to treat him with a grace well above his station.”

“In Akielos, slaves are treasured, and honored, for their submission.”

“We are not in Akielos, Torveld.”

“In Patras, then,” Torveld snapped, “In Patras, too, a slave's service is valued. Submission earns them safety, and the care of their masters. I have an obligation to see to his happiness.”

Torgeir was silent in the wake of Torveld's words, lips tight and brows furrowed into a deep 'v' between his eyes. Torveld held his gaze and drew in several breaths, slow through his nose, before he spoke again.

“I do not think a bit of kindness is too much to demand from the boy's teachers,” he said, “He is doing everything I have asked of him, and he has not complained of a single struggle. It is pure cruelty to insult someone for a mistake when they are yet learning.”

“He would not struggle so, if you did not insist on sending him to lessons beyond his capabilities,” Torgeir said, voice quiet in the fading light.

Torveld closed his eyes and rubbed a hand quickly across his face. It did nothing to soothe the weary frustration he felt creeping into his every muscle. The lessons were not beyond Erasmus' capabilities. He refused to debate the same point again with each new man who accused him of folly for his plans.

_I am not proposing to build a school of letters and enroll every slave in the kingdom in it_

If Erasmus was capable, there were certainly other capable slaves – at least a few, if not the whole kingdom's worth. And perhaps if Torveld did build a school and teach every last one to read, these doubts being lobbed at him would cease.

But no. That was impossible. With a sigh, Torveld shook the unbidden thought out of his mind.

“I am sorry about dinner, Torgeir,” he said, aware that the silence had gone on too long, “I will come tomorrow, and I will make sure to be in regular attendance until... unless I have to leave for Vere.”

“Thank you,” Torgeir said, soft and tired, “The children have missed you, and Lillian and I were worried.”

Torveld stood. He glanced at Torgeir only briefly and then bowed his farewell for the evening. Torgeir nodded his leave to go.

“I am sorry to have worried you, brother.”

Torveld did not wait for Torgeir's answer; he was out the door of the study almost before his own words had left his mouth.

___________

Torveld laid in bed as the sunrise spread through the sky, eyes fixed on Erasmus' face as it was gradually illuminated. The gray light of coming dawn lifted the night shadows from him, then gave way to the warm pink that looked so lovely on him. Pink darkened to a splash of murky red that quickly faded into burnt orange, playing across the smooth planes of his face and setting his soft curls alight with golden shimmers.

Torveld brushed his fingers carefully over Erasmus' cheek and further down, grazing the tawny cream of his neck and shoulder. Erasmus shifted into the touch, curling closer, and a small contented sigh escaped him. His heartbeat was slow where it pulsed gently into Torveld's own chest, as they lay pressed together. Torveld smiled and kissed Erasmus once on his forehead, careful not to wake him. It was moments like this he treasured most. To hold Erasmus against him and know the young man was safe, happy....to feel no unfamiliar wonderings lurking in his mind, to sense no secrets hiding in the dark of Erasmus' eyes. Simply to be; to enjoy, uncomplicated and comfortable, the company of his most treasured slave.

Erasmus stirred with a quiet rustle of bedsheets. His hair tickled Torveld's chin as he tilted away just enough to look – almost, but not quite directly – at Torveld's eyes. And then he smiled, the sun rising steadily behind him not shining near as brightly, and Torveld was grinning back at him before he'd realized. He cupped his hand under Erasmus' chin and brought their lips together in a tender, sleepy kiss.

“Good morning, dear one.”

“Good morning, Master Torveld.”

Torveld kissed him again, slow, soft, just to feel his warm lips and the skip of his heartbeat. Erasmus opened to the kiss like he was welcoming home a beloved friend, and Torveld felt two thin arms wind around his ribcage and give a soft squeeze. He ran his thumb slowly along Erasmus' jaw and gave a gentle nip to the young man's lower lip. Erasmus breathed a tiny sound of appreciation into his mouth, and so he did it again just to hear the sound one more time.

One kiss stretched into another, and another, until Torveld was kissing his way down Erasmus' body. He reveled in the soft, gasping moans that fell from Erasmus' mouth as his own mouth lavished attention on Erasmus' warm pink cock. Erasmus' hips bucked shallowly upward, and his thighs twitched and spasmed under Torveld's hands. The taste of Erasmus filled his mouth, and he wanted more of it, but even more he wanted to see Erasmus reach his full while filled with Torveld's own cock.

Just as Erasmus' moans grew sharper with urgency, Torveld drew up and away, lips wet. He lifted Erasmus gently into his lap and guided the young man down onto him. He kissed Erasmus again and swallowed the soft cry he let out as he sunk down and took in Torveld's length. And then there was no thought, only feeling and the sweet sounds of Erasmus' pleasure rushing warm into his ears.

Torveld was late to his morning engagement. He apologized to his visiting cousins and declined to explain the cause of his delay. At least, he hoped, Erasmus would have time to rest and clean up before his riding lesson that morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day~
> 
> If you're still here after the long gap between chapters, please know I'm so thankful for you. Give me a shout in the comments! <3 Or come pester me on my tumblr @olitheolive.
> 
> Much love to my amazing beta @yourstargazing on tumblr


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